


Unbearable - Harry (Tea with Severus)

by Bridgette_Hayden



Series: Unbearable [5]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Extra warnings are below!, Gender Issues, Incest, M/M, Main warnings for dramatic handling of, Mpreg, noncon, preconceived labels such as
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-11-26
Updated: 2019-07-14
Packaged: 2019-08-29 22:34:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 22
Words: 131,089
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16752724
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bridgette_Hayden/pseuds/Bridgette_Hayden
Summary: Harry and Draco did the best they could after the war. Two years later, the dust has settled. As they attempt to raise a child together, Harry feels strong enough to go after answers. When work for the Ministry leaves him picking up clues that hint of Snape's survival, he becomes determined to find him. The curse that he and Draco suffered at different times, may have destroyed their youthful, carefree abandon, but it has given them a reason to try harder for each other and for their family. *Note: Due to the complexity of their relationships, Harry will be intimately involved with Draco, Lucius and Snape at some point.





	1. Birth Controlled

**Author's Note:**

> JK Rowling owns everything and I make no money from this.

If warnings are important to you: [WARNINGS](https://archiveofourown.org/chapters/43692959#work_endnotes)

***************************************************************************************

A/N:  
This story has plot connections to Unbearable - Draco and Masterpiece - Severus. The child's name, Iece, is pronounced I-EEES. Long vowels, as if the word 'ice' had two syllables.

Being Lucius' daughter, she's a bit of a snow queen. *wink* She has Harry's compassion, but looks entirely like a Malfoy. (Lucius is very proud of that).

* * *

Predawn hours. A muggle condominium. A new start.

Harry made it a point to keep his daughter in his arms all morning. After almost two years, he still had a problem believing she was his. Her white hair against his black, never lost its contrasting shock when he looked at the two of them in the bathroom mirror. She slumped, head down on his shoulder, so that their heads touched as she breathed warmly against him in her sleep. Mouth open, her dimpled arms dangled over his in her onesy. She lay as if she trusted him completely, and that was always amazing to him. After all the darkness in his life, that something so bright, happy, and perfect-magic, could need him and automatically accept him without question, without hesitation, was balm to his soul. It was almost as if everything he'd lost, he'd gotten back a hundred times over in her outstretched hands that reached for him every morning. He never got tired of it. It fed him life. If he hadn't carried her in his body, if he hadn't seen her come out of him, he would never have believed she was his. If he'd had to go through hell so that she could be there, then so be it.

He kissed the top of her head. Now that he had to leave her with her big brother, Draco, he wanted to drink in as much of her love as he could store in his heart for the trip ahead. Two weeks touring with the Ministry campaign wouldn't be very long. But without her, it would feel like a lifetime. He probably wouldn't be going at all except for the pressure put on him to be a role model for young wizards rebuilding their lives after the war. Fuck that. He was nobody's unrealistic expectation. The real reason was that the campaign gave him and Draco the opportunity to take a break. It had been a long time coming. They'd held it together this long because of Iece, who needed them both. They'd spent so much time running from Lucius' reach and recovering, they hadn't had to think of much else. The main priority was stability and safety for Iece. Once they achieved that, the ghosts caught up with them.

They thought it would feel so good to sit still in their own place and plan a future. Little did they know, the calm would only make their pain more obvious. Now that they weren't outrunning it, they spent long hours in separate rooms, getting irritable, and looking at each other like burdened strangers. Iece, was the one thing they still loved together. She should've been the most complicated element in the whole thing. But she was the simplest and the happiest. Still, it wasn't fair to ask her to save his and Draco's friendship. They'd been through too much, and she had to be isolated from that.

When Draco had asked him to accept the Ministry's offer to travel, Harry knew that Draco was asking for a break, for time to himself. Even though he would be keeping his baby sister in Harry's absence, it would still give him valuable time to himself. He could clear his mind better with Harry gone for a few weeks. Neither of them had wanted to say it, that a separation would be good. Hell, requesting separation meant admitting some sort of arrangement. They had no official partnership. They weren't married like Lucius thought. But Iece needed them both. It took both of them to take care of her. She probably wouldn't be alive if Draco hadn't been there to look after her when Harry couldn't so much as lift his head from the trauma of the entire experience. But now that they were sitting still in a nice, new place, they had to answer to some dark things that had caught up with them.

That first year after she was born, the three only really had each other. When everyone saw that Harry wasn't going to die, and his strength returned, he did his best to keep up with Ron and Hermione. It meant everything to hold up his end of the fight and to destroy all the horcruxes like he'd vowed. If they'd known his secret, that he wasn't fully recovered, he would never have gotten to the point of defeating Voldemort face to face, wand to wand. He'd had to keep the pregnancy a secret. Only Draco and Snape had known.

It was bad enough that Ron and Hermione had witnessed the savagery that caused it all. They knew about that and they no longer looked at him the same. They tried not to treat him any differently, but any eye contact immediately triggered wincing at the memory standing between them in all its blatant obviousness. He was the pink elephant they were pretending not to see out of compassion. Harry appreciated the gift of silence. They had their own wounds to nurse, he couldn't expect them to know what to do or say to render the topic neutral, or at least keep himself from being highly offended that they dare throw the matter in his face. There was absolutely no solution. Just get on with life. That was the only path ahead. Don't think about it. Don't think about the thing growing inside of him. It was too small to be significant. Too small to be real. He was alive and more important things needed his attention. He had to focus on that. Besides, at the time, Snape was working on it. Snape was going to come up with a potion or something to make it all go away. His body would return to normal.

That was before he'd found Snape dying in the boathouse. His heart still swelled to leaden weight and sunk to the bottom of that finality. Familiar anger flared. How could someone who scared him so much, who inspired so much hatred, so much command of Harry's focus, lay helpless like that? Snape had no right to be helpless, when he'd intimidated the shit out of Harry since childhood. Nothing could be more wrong than seeing a strong, fierce man, melting in his own tears and blood, as he turned pleading eyes to Harry. Why did Harry have to see that? Why had Snape's final moments become so valuable over time? Why was his aging, stoic and severe features revealed to be so beautiful by the loss of tension in the pristine lines of his mouth? How had that horrible good-bye become precious among all the good-byes Harry had suffered through? He had to see that, he knew, so that he could take the memories when Snape finally offered them. But they were tainted memories, scrambled. There were garbled bits that made no sense. He'd only seen what Snape had wanted him to see, and those were pieced together like some kind of hasty editing job. He'd made do with it, but questions that would never have answers boiled inside of him.

It had all taken its toll. After he defeated Voldemort, he knew that Draco wasn't going anywhere. Draco looked at Iece, the child produced by his father's damaged, sociopathic idea of revenge, like it fell to him entirely to protect her, and he was just glad that Harry had the sense to cooperate with him. Harry was pretty sure, if he ever decided to take her off on his own, he'd have to fight Draco to do it.  
The way Draco had taken charge, volunteering his father's business and private information to the Ministry, and turning over the entire Malfoy Collection, a treasury of dark objects the aurors had no knowledge of, he'd won himself consultant status within the Ministry and accepted the offer to intern within the Department of Dangerous Artifacts. Between Snape's and Draco's memories, all the indictments against them both were dropped.

Since accepting the hire, Draco and Harry had to decide between a nanny for Iece, or their own house elf. Neither wanted to have to get used to a new presence in their home when they were just beginning to settle, so the need went unanswered while Harry counseled war-addled youth in Ministry sponsored programs and Draco worked nights.

Draco's face drew close on his decision. "It has to be a house elf. We can't consider anything less."

Harry tried not to see so much of his father in him. "But house elves come with old, wealthy families. And that comes with dark baggage. I don't want her exposed to that way of life."

"And you think giving her a muggle nanny will keep her safe?"

"No. I'm going to keep her safe. But maybe a magical nanny is what we need."

"Maybe? Are you putting your hopes on 'maybe'? How long before we feel we can give our complete trust to a nanny we don't know? Like it or not, Iece has a birth-father whose magic is never going to let him escape notice of the most observant wizards, and a brother practically indoctrinated in illegal arts. Not to mention her father, the one person we don't talk about. We don't know what kind of magic she has, she'll need an experienced house elf who can handle it without our worrying. The loyalty of a house elf is a family asset. We'll go to Gringotts and arrange a Service Contract in the old tradition. They know our blood, they'll find an elf who's right for us."

"That worries me. We'll be just as bound to the elf as it will be to us. I'm not trying to expand my family, I didn't even want this one!"

"Well you got it. Now you have to protect it. That takes magic."

"What if… what if they say that we have to bond? I don't want it to be out of safety or necessity."

Draco looked at him, refusing to be offended. "At the very least, I'll have to sign in blood for co-custody. We don't have to bond. But I would if that's what it took, without question."

What he didn't say, 'Why wouldn't you?' stood evaporating in the air between them.

They had been through too much. Priorities had changed. Draco's stare impaled him, reminding him who was there when Harry had to be screamed at to push. "If you don't push right now, you're going to fuck her up really bad. Her head is soft, Harry. I see it. Dammit, wake up and push!"

Back then, between seeing what Lucius was capable of, Harry's despondency, and an almost lifeless infant in his hands, still bloody and cord attached, Draco's maturity had to kick into high gear. They'd been in hiding for weeks in the seashore cottage Snape had arranged for them, knowing the baby would come. They weren't even sure of their location. There were no other cottages around and the surrounding horizon billowed with willowy grass stretching to woods on one side, and a rocky shore on the other.

Harry's public appearances had been aided by oversized jackets and the fact his male skeletal structure did not push his stomach out like a woman's. Male pelvises tilted back, allowing their abdomens to remain inconspicuous. His stomach remained mostly flat, which wasn't good for him or the child, who did not have enough room to grow without putting too much pressure and strain on Harry's heart and lungs. Professor Snape's last examination predicted she'd be premature and he instructed them where to go when the time came. He'd blasted Draco with a burst of severe and specific instructions on what to do immediately after she was born, as if he'd known it would fall to Draco to keep them safe. He'd certainly known that he wouldn't be there to help.

Snape had gotten Harry through the physical aftermath of Lucius' attack. On the night that it happened, Draco had his house elf apperate Ron, Hermione, and Harry, to an empty vacation home the Malfoys weren't currently using in Scotland. Hermione then risked detection wards at Hogwarts to try to get Madame Pompfrey's attention. Snape's modified wards as Headmaster, intercepted her and she'd come face to face with him. Whether it was the trial of seeing and enduring what had happened to Harry, being surprised by Snape, or the stress of holding herself together, her shock gave him two seconds of helpless desperation that had him looking into her mind and demanding of her, "Where is he?"

She'd told Ron and Draco afterwards, "He totally saw Harry in my mind. I couldn't stop him. But at the same time, I felt his alarm. I felt that he cared. It wasn't a lie, and I had to trust him."

At the time, Ron and Hermione were still clueless to most of Dumbledore's plans and did not know that he'd ordered his own death by Snape's hands. When they learned the truth, it seemed to take the last of the fight out of them. And by then, both Voldemort and Snape were gone.

Draco never forgot the look on Snape's face when confronted with Harry's injuries at the hands of his old friend. Draco could practically see the moment when Snape severed that friendship and hid his rage from them in order to tend to Harry's wounds. Confidence orchestrated his care and looked like gift box perfection on his closed expression. As he'd watched Snape's hands wring out water and run a cloth gently over Harry's skin, Draco waited for Snape to spin on his heels and scream at him, as if knowing he should bear the brunt of whatever punishment his father deserved. But that didn't happen. Snape had asked them all to step outside. When Draco refused to go, he permitted it. Draco had been allowed to stay in the room and watch over Harry, as if Snape didn't have to be told that Draco couldn't leave Harry's side even if he wanted to. His father had done this to Harry, and it was up to him to stay alert, present, and help where he could. Only a sharper snap to Snape's voice, tightly wound instructions, and a tell-tale tremor to otherwise expert hands, revealed the lava flowing beneath the surface.

Draco wondered why Snape bothered with water and cloths, and didn't just use spells to clean and heal everything. Then he realized, the way Snape repeatedly, methodically squeezed warm water between his fingers and let it stream Harry's blood clear, was part of a healing spell. He watched for the movement of Snape's lips, but saw instead, the penetration of his eyes as he infused some unspoken intention into Harry. It occurred to Draco that whatever this slow method was, it used the warmth of the water to soothe its way into Harry's body and mind. Harry's face was no longer scrunched in pain. He even opened his eyes, half-lidded, before letting them close again.

When Snape could do no more for him, he'd ordered Draco, "Keep yourselves here. Stay hidden. It isn't safe for him to apperate again right now. As soon as it is, I want you to take him to a very specific location. You'll be safe there. I'll look in on you when I can. You must not let him leave until I give him the clear."

Harry had recovered, but not like they'd hoped. It wasn't a full recovery and his friends could scarcely keep him from charging off to destroy the next horcrux as soon as he felt stronger. Snape had known that he wouldn't be there when Harry would need the greatest help. He made Draco repeat his own instructions to him.

"As soon as she comes out, what are you going to do?"

"Use the suction tube. Look at her coloring, her breathing, her reflexes."

"If her face is blue?"

"Use the suction tube again, to clean out her mouth and throat."

"If she needs oxygen, what instruments will you use and how much pressure?"

"The thread tube and the respirator. An eighth of pressure, twelve second intervals, or the line you've marked. Keep her on it, check every six hours to see if she can breathe normally on her own. The indention in her sternum will show if she's struggling."

"And if she appears to need greater help?"

"Go get the witch, 'Jackie,' working at the muggle chemist at Lumbers and Brimm intersection. Bring her here, don't try to apperate the baby. Jackie will have her medical room shrunken, but should not be contacted unless we have no other choice."

It was Draco who cleaned up the mess and made sure Harry had a clean bed at all times. Draco, who learned to change those first two weeks of diapers that Snape had stored for them? Draco, who made sure they were all fed, even when Harry refused to acknowledge that his flat chest was leaking something disgusting. Snape had left tonics and nutrient liquids, along with instructions on how to use them. But they went through them, and they had to leave their hiding place eventually. The infant's needs forced Draco to apperate, to enter a muggle grocery and to use actual muggle money to purchase formulaic substitutes for milk.

She took to them, as if her tiny presence was doing its best to help and not be a burden. Snape's instructions had said not to move her from the place for at least a month. The entire property contained incubation spells designed to assist her immune system and develop her lungs. After a while, the extra wards worked to calm them all and give them a sense of security. That sense, let Harry come to the decision that he would face whatever was going on, whether he knew how to deal with it or not. When he did, he realized that not only was Draco doing everything for the baby, Draco didn't trust Harry with it. When Harry asked for her, a surprise to them both, Draco refused. That's when it sunk in, how badly he must've been behaving. His attitude. His entire outlook. Before anger could right itself within him, he understood the wide, dark caution in Draco's eyes. Evidently, he'd behaved so dreadfully, Draco had reason to think he'd toss the baby against the wall the minute he got his hands on her.

Harry attempted to defend himself. "I don't hate her. I wouldn't hurt her."

Draco had shaken his head slowly. Gravely. "You haven't touched her. She was born two weeks ago and you're just now looking at her."

"If I wanted to hurt her, I could've ended it before she was born."

"Why didn't you?"

"You kept talking me out of it. Anybody else, you couldn't care less. Just another bin-baby. Happens all the time. But you guilted me into it. After Snape told us her gender, you kept calling her your sister and telling me you had to make this right. 'Don't punish her just because my father deserves to be punished,' you said."

"You didn't keep her for me. I need to hear that you didn't just keep her for me. If that's true, then sign her over to me. You don't need to hold her if the only reason she's here, is because I begged you to go through with it. She's better off without you."

Harry didn't know what to make of that, let alone what to say. That actually hurt. He thought he could get by with laughing out loud at the absurd idea of Draco taking on a baby, but when he opened his mouth, tears and screams came with it. "She's fucking mine and I'll deal with it! You don't get to decide that I'm crazy just because I can't simply bounce back from this. You don't get to decide that I should just be overcome with joy and ready to be a fucking father. Yes, father! I can't even begin to think in terms of the other. They're just fucking words, Draco. Snape said my body would go back to normal and I'm counting on that. She's mine, no matter what words we use and I gotta start thinking in a way I can cope with. If it's taking me two weeks to be able to look at what your father did to me, then so fucking be it! I'm wounded, I'm not crazy. At least let me look at my fucking daughter. And don't you ever accuse me of doing anything to hurt her ever again. I, of all people, know what it's like to be unwanted. I wouldn't have her, then put her through that fucking hell."

That, apparently, was the conviction Draco needed to hear. He'd gently handed his sister to him.

Harry tried not to flinch when the pink, scrawny, four pound thing squirmed against him. She was a thing to him, something he needed to face, like a tragic car accident. He might not have liked his circumstances, but he steeled himself not to take it out on her. He had no idea what he was supposed to do with her, and she represented the bleakest part of his life.

But her fingers were so tiny and perfect, even down to her fingernails. Her fists showed paper-thin, translucent blue veins, and made little knuckles. She was real. A real baby. A girl.

For a second, dread paused and amazement peeked in. He'd expected the worst. All the months he'd raged against changes and discomforts in his body, that he'd kept secret, even from Draco, he'd been pushing and running from the worst. He'd half expected something with wings and fangs, if his feelings had played any part in shaping it. Maybe it was because he'd set his expectations so low, that when he really looked at her, the sheer fact that she looked like a normal baby, astonished him.

His first instinct was to avoid peering too deeply into her face. But when it wasn't that bad, he stared, transfixed. Where did all that white hair come from? He knew, but it still seemed impossible. It felt bigger than just her hair. There was too much of it for a newborn, and it stood in patch tufts, curling over her soft spot. She already had Draco's coloring, but Harry supposed, by the tawny edge of her hairline, that might change. He tried not to focus on the hair, to make too much of it, because that was just the sort of thing he shouldn't do. Draco wasn't her father. The hair practically laughed at all kinds of irony. There were worse things that he could be looking at. At least she looked complete and what passed for healthy, as far as he could tell. New babies never looked right to him anyway. They didn't look right till they'd plumped up a bit. Her thin legs and balled toes told him she had a ways to go. All that glacier-colored hair wasn't her fault.

Draco stood over him, reading his mind. "It'll probably turn black." It sounded like an apology. "By the time she's school age, it'll go dark. That's what usually happens when the parents are…different."

Harry knew that Draco didn't mean 'different'. He meant less than pureblood.

"She's perfect," he assured Draco a little indignantly. It wasn't her fault her genetics screamed so boldly where everyone else's were subtle. He could either choose to see Lucius spitting in his face through her, or he could see how brilliant she was, in spite of being just as much a victim of the war as any of them were.

He counted the veins showing through her closed eyelids and decided she'd gotten more than her father's hair. And whose pristine little mouth was that, anyway? Not his, not his parents. In fact, she didn't look anything like him. That was amazing.

"Her eyebrows will be shaped like yours, they've got your lines."

Harry winced, and laughed in spite of himself. "I don't see it, but thanks for trying."

Draco smiled. "Sorry. My father is a very thorough asshole, I know."

The smile disappeared from Harry's face.

"Sorry." Draco shrugged.

Harry reached across the bed and took his hand. "It's okay."

It was. Kinda. Sometimes Harry cursed Lucius without holding back. Sometimes Draco joined him. This led to Draco thinking it might be okay to speak of his father around Harry, as long as he was insulting him. When Harry made a point to change the subject, that clued Draco that it was too much.

He blurted, "So, did you name her yet?"

Draco's mouth fell open, but not without widening into a grin. "I had to call her something. It's not official. You were asleep, so I started calling her… Nicee, for some god-awful reason."

Harry scrunched his face. "Nicee? Where'd that come from?"

"I don't know, look at her. When it's quiet and she's the only one you have to talk to, you just look at her and think cold, remote magic. She's going to be a total fucking princess, Harry. And not the kind that waits for rescuing in a tower. I'm sorry, but my father's magic is all over her. The best we can do is guide it. We'll make sure she's not the monster he is. But it's magic most people wouldn't be comfortable with. She makes me feel like, if magic were a thermostat, her setting has to be at a level that renders lesser magic dysfunctional. She'll thrive where others will be severely uncomfortable."

Harry wanted to remark on Draco's vivid imagination, but he found only one word popping out of his mouth. "Thermostat?"

"I'm having to take a few muggle courses as part of my internship. And yes. Look at her, there's nothing subtle about her. Why in the hell does she have such dark eyes? Nobody in my family has eyes like that. I kept waiting on them to turn grey, or green, or even hazel. But no, it's been two weeks and they're really dark. For a minute, I thought she might be blind, but if you hold something shiny in front of her, they'll focus and she gets all twitchy like she wants it. Everything about her, her birth, her appearance, her magic, is set to a different standard."

Harry sighed, "No, Draco. Please don't start with that superiority thing again."

"I didn't say it was superior. I said it was different. If you ignore that her magic might have specific needs and characteristics, and try to make her fit in with everything around her, you could do more harm than good. We'll not hold her back just because others might not be up to speed with her. And that's the cold part. That's going to be misunderstood because of her looks. She came here to do something, and she's not going to wait on anyone to understand her."

Harry squeezed his eyes shut. "Stop, stop, stop. Oh my god, I'm glad I'm awake now. You've spent way too much time conversing with an infant. Get out, get some fresh air. Apperate. Do something fun and just for you. I promise, I can take care of her today. You're driving yourself crazy."

Draco held his tongue, but folded his arms. "Okay then. I knew you'd react that way. If you're so practical and alert, what's her name?"

Harry shook his head. "I really haven't thought about it. But it's not Nicee."

  
Harry touched the soft skin between her barely formed eyebrows. A string of gentle 'ssssssss' whistled through his teeth. It sounded like Parsel tongue, and he saw Draco stiffen. "You're close. It wants to be that sound. It wants to be air straight through. It's a name we've never heard before, that's why it's not obvious. Look at her, it's silver ice and black eyes. It's ice. It's a whisper."

"We're not naming our daughter 'Ice'.

"Technically, she's not 'our' daughter."

"Technically, I will bash you over the head right now and take her, if you don't give her a decent name."

Harry sighed again. He wanted to show his gratefulness to Draco, but be fair to the baby. "What about a combination? Not 'Ni-cee', but 'I-eese'. Spelled I-e-c-e. Still has two syllables."

Draco considered it. "I suppose. I'm still going to call her Nicee."

Harry stroked her head and added, "Iece Lillian-Severus Potter."

The name stood in the air between them. Harry waited for Draco to ask the obvious. When Draco didn't, he breathed easier. They both new why Severus' name was in there. It was as logical as why the name 'Malfoy' was not. Where would they be without Snape?

From her blanket, shiny dark eyes squinted up at him. Harry hoped she wouldn't need glasses. He didn't want anything coming between him and those interested irises. White glacier hair, and black ice for eyes. It would be some time before he understood where those eyes came from.

* * *

A/N:  Please review! :-)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm changing my possessive format from s's to s'. That nearly drove me crazy in Masterpiece. 
> 
> Change of plan. I have to post what I have, and this wants to be novel-length, much longer than Draco's story. I wanted to wait until it was "perfect" and complete, but life is telling me to make peace with incomplete stories. I've finished two complete novels this summer, so I can stop trying to prove that I'm reliable. I'm learning that stories DO NOT END. Not for me, they don't. Characters keep talking and showing me fantastic things long after I've typed 'The End' so I might as well post what comes, whether it ever ends or not. I think I'm always going to be working on this universe now that I'm in love with it, and writing my original work is just going to have to be incorporated into my routine. It turns out that waiting until the fic is ready or complete, before posting, is causing more problems for my real novels, than just getting it out the way. This way, my other work doesn't have to be put on hold. Things can flow. I will see how this goes. This is going to be a much slower and sporadic process and I just have to make peace with it. The story coming, is telling me that it'll be worth it.


	2. Good-bye Kiss

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Draco gives Harry one last chance to make the right decision.

 

The first stop on the Ministry Tour is Dungarvin. Harry has opted to ride the train instead of apperating. It gives him time to acclimate to the mindset of meeting new people. It gives him time to think about Draco's last minute kiss. The whole morning had been calm, with Iece eating her oatmeal and laughing at the muggle images of fairies on a cartoon channel. She sat at the table between them. When it was time to say good-bye, Harry handed her to Draco, who promptly took her to the playpen in her nursery and closed the door on her. He slumped against it, like he'd been waiting to do that all morning.

He looked at Harry. "When you come back, we'll have a house elf of our own. You'll have to trust me."

"I told you, I have to be present for something like that."

"And I'm telling you, I'm exhausted."

The way Draco held the doorknob, his slender shoulders squared in regard to this admission. The way his chest heaved quietly, and his complexion went splotchy, Harry could see that it was an admission of defeat. He'd been holding it in for a long time and he was pretty pissed at Harry for making him say it.

"Legally, I'm Head of my Household. If I want one, I can get one. I'll make sure you're in the contract."

In nearly two years since school, Harry had gained ten pounds and Draco had lost exactly that much. The designer robes he wore at the Ministry, with precision cuts and fabrics that flattered him, hid the evidence of his stress. He hid what it took for him to manage the lives of three people, look out for his mother, maintain his family's finances, and make them all think that it came naturally to him. After work and a hot shower, in a T-shirt and jeans just expensive enough to shape his lean thighs, he counted on Harry not to comment on his physique. Just like he didn't complain about taking care of his sister. _Don't throw my shit in my face, and I won't throw yours in yours._ That was the unspoken deal.

As long as Harry saw Draco eat, he made it a point to keep his mouth shut. Harry was the one who had to maintain his body. He built muscle during his time as a celebrity quidditch player. At first he did it for charities. He raised money to supply the demand for housing and medical magic for war victims. But the money thrown at his presence proved too substantial to dismiss, and the Ministry hid behind Non-profit organizations, to get him to appear at its functions.

Unlike Draco, Harry played Charity Quidditch for the International Magical Relations Embassy. The organization was erected after the war to foster international camaraderie and to heal the rift of distrust that Voldemort's crimes had inspired between Wizarding nations. Together with the Ministry, and an umbrella of organizations, including a little known American branch, they sponsored the campaign currently touring Continental Europe. Harry's British-American team, the Skyrazors, were scheduled for a twelve-game tournament over the summer, and he had to stay in shape.

Draco, however, had no delusions about ever forcing himself to work that hard to impress or to keep up. In some circles, his genetics could open doors that Harry's compact six-pack never could. His looks were a Malfoy stamp, and it came without hard work and effort. He would not be made to feel guilty for that. Nor would he do push-ups. Mankind invented hard work. There was no such edict in the fucking Universe. And if Harry had a problem with his body, then Harry needed to stay the fuck off of him and find someone else to put up with the midnight mauling that sometimes came out of nowhere.

Not that either of them wanted that. While sex could be unpredictable between them, it was still a background factor. It had becomes such an unapproachable subject that both of them refused to look at it until it had them tearing at each other's pants just to get it over with, so that they could get back to ignoring it as soon as possible. Both of them could go for months pretending their urges didn't exist just because they were now parents. That is, until Harry's broken knuckles left him so bad off, he couldn't pick the baby up, and couldn't heal them before alarming Draco of the need to come home. When he thought Iece was wedged securely between pillows, she'd actually fallen off the couch, while Harry was using the closet to do things he could not do to Draco. That was a bad day.

Sexual abandon between them dried up after Lucius' attack. That part of their relationship was over before it started. They couldn't look at each other the same after that, and the baby required all of Draco's attention just to survive. They constantly moved from apartment to apartment, running from the public, running from Lucius. Harry had to keep up appearances to avoid prosecution in the on-going trials. Both of them were constantly forced to testify and to brave the angry mobs before their names were cleared. Draco watched his father go to Azkaban, and Harry attended seventy-two funerals before he refused to attend anymore. Nobody was feeling sexy after that.

When they absolutely had to leave the baby in someone else's care, it was Harry who'd approached Hermione Grainger for the first time after months. Draco wanted to kill him.

"You what?"

"It's just for a few hours."

"I know you didn't just say, 'Hermione'."

"We need help."

"She won't even look you in the eye. You left my sister with her?"

"It's fine. You may not trust her, but I trust her with my life. She's just as scarred as we are. This will give her time to see that Iece is just like any other baby, regardless of circumstances. We'll finally have a babysitter."

"Are you mad? Iece isn't like other babies!"

"Sshhhhhh…. That's enough! Hermione's got her for the next three hours. Deal with it."

Harry survived Draco's glare for that long. When the three hours were up and Hermione had not met them back at the floo, at Grimmauld Place, Draco cursed her name and went after the trace he'd placed on Iece's diapers. He came through at Ron and Hermione's place just as she was making Iece's little hand wave good-bye to Ron and his family. Draco's appearance knocked her right out of the pit, breaking the protection bubble she was using to keep floo soot off the baby.

"Draco?" She, and the entire Weasley family gaped at him. "I was just about to get her back to Harry."

Draco couldn't take the child fast enough.

Ron stood with his parents on the other side of the sofa. At least three red-headed brothers Draco was less acquainted with, a woman he'd never seen before, and that thing they called Ginny, all looked appalled at his intrusion. But the mention of his name had them biting their tongue and hoping for an introduction.

Draco was smart enough to wait until Iece was secure in his arms before blurting, "You've had her long enough. Harry said that he was leaving her with you and you alone."

Hermione blushed, turning to Ron's family. "Sorry everyone, I think we mentioned that Draco is very protective."

"That's bloody, rude." Ron called him out.

Before Draco could show him what rude was, Molly Weasley left the enclosure of her husband's arms to clamor over to the fireplace. Shawl dripping, she spread her short arms and pulled Draco and the baby into their flabby embrace. "You two dears!" she exclaimed. "I'm so proud of you. This is just like a family, starting out in such difficult times. We've wanted to see the baby since Ron told us. We wanted to reach out to you boys and show you that you have people willing to help. You're not alone. Harry is family, and his family is ours as well. Dear, don't you ever be shy about bringing that youngun around. None of us chose our circumstances. Our home is always open to Harry's family."

Arthur Weasley's plump grin echoed his wife's sentiment, and Draco stood facing a battery of emotional blinking and random sniffs. In the confusion of not knowing whose ass needed kicking, he endured the woman's wooly curls and the scent of her perfumed ointment. She squeezed him until his lack of movement made it utterly clear that he was not going to squeeze back.

When he could breathe again, Hermione explained, "Well, she's just so sweet. I can't believe how much she looks like Harry with blonde hair. That's crazy-wonderful! Ron and I decided to make a thing of it, and invited his family over. We know that Harry doesn't want everyone knowing, but we're like family and we can keep his secret, until he feels comfortable with it being public. And I was nervous, and who knows better about taking care of babies, than Mrs. Weasley? Draco, don't be angry with us. We miss Harry. While we can't erase what happened, we can show him that we love this little one and we're so happy that you two are making it work."

She was speaking double-tongue. He understood it. Months ago, before parting ways, Draco made her and Ron swear that he was the child's birth-father. "It's all going to come out in the trial. Everyone will know that Voldemort cursed me with the Unbearable. I'm the one who got pregnant, not Harry. She's my kid, and don't tell anyone else otherwise. She'll be in even more danger if people know Harry's the birth-father. Let them think he's helping me with my kid."

"But won't they ask about the part your father played? Won't they look at Harry's memories? And the memories of others who were there that night?"

"They'll look, but they won't find those memories. Snape took them. He obliviated Harry right there on the table that night. He said it was the only way to save Harry's sanity. It took a good chunk of Harry's magic with it. Snape performed surgery that night. I saw him lure those black strings from Harry's head into a bottle and sealed it with a spell. He took it with him. And no Death Eater facing trial, is going to admit to watching my father do that, and doing nothing to prevent it. There's nothing to be gained from it but a trip to the lowest, darkest part of Askaban to await a cold kiss."

"But Harry Remembers…" Ron started.

"And his magic seems to have gotten stronger, not weaker. I saw him turn his patronis into a moving, three-dimensional movie from his memories. He didn't even need a pensieve."

Draco corrected them. "Harry's magic is recovering. Snape said it's learning around the injury. Harry remembers only what Snape left him. He knows how it happened, he just doesn't have to keep having nightmares about it. The worst of it was removed."

Hermione was undaunted. "If they make you testify, then they'll force you to say who the father is. What will you tell them?"

"Not a damn thing."

"They'll force you."

Draco shook his head. "They can rip information from my mind, but I can pollute it. I can show them things that make them assume, without ever saying it."

Hermione really was sharp. "You're going to show them who her father is, without lying about it. You're going to make them think that Lucius attacked his own son, without ever speaking the words."

"They'll think I'm so fucking traumatized, they'll remove me and my testimony. It's the worst fall from grace possible. They'll be humiliated for me and tell me I've suffered enough. It'll stop them wondering where we got the baby from, and why she looks so much like me. Harry goes free without anyone knowing."

"But she looks like Harry. She absolutely looks like Harry. They'll do blood tests as well as inheritance tests."

"All that's going to show, is that Harry and I share some ancestry. It's not definitive. And nobody has any reason to suppose that Harry has anything to do with her. You're the only one who sees the resemblance. All anyone else ever sees, is her hair anyway, and then they shake their heads at me."

Draco's certainty had left them unable to argue further.

In short, Mrs. Weasley thought she knew what she was talking about. They all thought they knew the big secret, that Harry was the real father of Draco's baby, under the Death Eater curse, the Unbearable. The inbred, incest tragedy miring Draco's reputation, was just one of the many rumors manufactured from a trial filled with nasty revelations. They still didn't know that Harry had suffered the same curse and had been unlucky enough to conceive. The conclusion that Harry was biologically related to Iece in any way, went unverified and unconfirmed.

Draco glared his intention into Hermione to keep it that way. Hermione was a wildcard of emotion one minute, and shrewd methodology the next. She couldn't be trusted to keep cool about it. Already, she was wiping tears and speaking as if she'd been holding them in for quite some time. How long would it take before she blurted the truth? A lot of people lied about what happened to Harry that night, including Ron and Hermione. If all that had to be drug out into the open, testimonies would crumble. Criminals would walk free, and trials would have to resume.

Draco strained his glare to make her hear him. _Stop talking._

"Ronald and I have wanted you both in our home, with the baby, forever it seems. We just didn't know how to reach out to you. You avoided us during the trials, understandably."

So much unconditional love filled the room, Draco thought he saw the movements of deceased Weasley relatives crowding into Hermione's tiny living room. Weasley's were so freaking weird, professing love and oozing sentimentality at the drop of a hat. Well he and Harry didn't need their pity. Before he could tell them so, his throat closed and he barely had enough voice to tell them he needed to get Iece home for her nap. "She's not used to people. I, I have to get her back."

Arthur nodded knowingly and winked at Draco. "I daresay, her fathers aren't accustomed to being without her."

Draco nodded absently and mumbled "Sorry," before pulling his cloak around Iece and flooing back to Harry. By then, they'd learned the protection spells that shielded the baby between locations.

Since that day, he'd only given into Harry's plea to let Mrs. Weasley babysit twice. Between her and Hermione, the older woman did have valuable experience that Hermione lacked. But that didn't make it okay. Draco wanted to be all that his sister needed to stay safe and happy. He owed her that. He owed Harry that. Harry wasn't supposed to worry about who was looking after her. That was Draco's job. After two years, when he couldn't pretend to be some mythical superhero of a brother, or father, he'd made up his mind to have the balls to do what Harry could not. To say the words, "I can't do this anymore. I'm tired. I need help."

That morning, after announcing that he was going to get a house elf no matter what Harry thought, Draco waited for the response that would end one era of his life, and start another one. Nobody wanted a custody battle. Nobody wanted this public. He didn't want to risk prison for having let everyone think he'd given birth instead of Harry. But he couldn't keep up the routine and pace that all of their needs required. Someone had to go, and it wasn't going to be his little Nicee.

He leaned against the door and waited for Harry to give him another reason why they couldn't have an elf. His bags were already packed, and so were Iece's. If Harry said no this time, he'd return to an empty condo.

Draco heard all of Harry's excuses pour out in the weight of his sigh. Harry dumped them, without giving voice to one. When his shoulders slumped, the only thing Harry said was, "You win. Hire whatever help you need. I trust you. Just don't leave. Not yet. Will you promise to be here when I get back?"

Draco couldn't think of an awful enough name to call him for being so dead-on. He pushed from the door and threw his weight into Harry, causing them both to stumble to the nearest support. Wall sex was still their favorite, but it was rare and there was no time for it. Harry had to apparate to the train platform in five minutes or risk a later boarding. He'd already delayed saying good-bye to them for as long as he could.

"Don't make me come looking for you," Harry whispered between kisses.

Draco's pull at his clothes and lips smeared all clarity into a seamless need for contact. Cracked lips roughed Harry into opening his mouth and abandoning himself to whatever Draco's hands wanted. There was nothing gentle about it, and Draco stretched himself as far as he could go into Harry's space without injuring both of them. When it was over, and Draco offered no explanation for why he left Harry's lips scratched and burning, as well as other things, Harry knew that it was Draco's way of demonstrating that he was going to be right here when Harry got back.

That frustrating kiss gave Harry something to think about returning to. Their sex life had never recovered from that night. But things happened. Uncontrollable things that broke out of them on the rare occasions they put Iece to sleep in her own bed. Harry could not be persuaded to so much as kiss Draco with her in the room. But on those rare occasions, he and Draco locked in a tournament of strength, each needing to prove they were solid men and nothing less, in the wake of their affronted masculinity. It was a privilege to be on top and Harry had won it as many times as they dared to play that dangerous game. He could count the times on his hand.

What happened between them was too angry to be called making love. The desire was there, but something always came between them. Something competitive and begrudging. Harry considered himself to be a nice person, but when Draco had him growling with need, the last thing he wanted to be, was nice. And Draco was good at playing the part that made Harry want to give him more than he could handle.

It was just a game and they both knew what they were doing. If things got out of hand, if Draco let Harry take some sort of revenge, then it was their private arena and they never had to admit what was really going on. When they held off long enough, their bodies came together so hard, they didn't see the bruises or notice broken bones until the sated effects wore off. Harry was not into violence. Draco was just the closest thing to emasculating Lucius Malfoy as Harry would ever come. It was just a game. It was Draco's gift to him.

* * *

A/N:  Please review! :-)


	3. What They Don't Talk About

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Draco has cards he isn't showing.

Once settled on the train, Harry did a quick visual of seeing himself making light-hearted conversation, swapping anecdotes, and generally holding his own against what his fame had done to public perception. That's how he prepared his mind for the public pace of the next two weeks. People seemed to think that just because they knew _of_ him, that meant they also knew him. He was used to that, but he wasn't eager to deal with all those conclusions about his character. It was one thing to know he had something worth giving, and another to put up with all the ignorance.

In his best moments he relayed the actions of others. He told the stories of those who had no voices to speak. He told, not only his history, but the history of those who were with him, and brought urgency back to life for the people who appreciated what they'd all come through. His speeches had turned into informal lectures. They won awards. And when he refused to take those awards back to his lodgings, they materialized in the trophy room at Hogwarts, or in his Gringott vaults. His magic knew their value even if he did not.

It had started when he couldn't give a lady in the audience the answers she wanted. That woman, a stranger he'd never laid eyes on, was mourning a fifth-year daughter, whom he also couldn't remember.

"Who cares if you're a hero," the woman heckled him, even as security approached her. "It doesn't bring back my child, who had nothing to do with your crazy war!"

Harry stopped trying to appeal to her to listen right then. He dropped his notes on the podium and tossed aside all his coaching on how to deflect and diffuse audience tension. He looked directly at her and asked, "And how did she die?"

The aiming of his words were meant to trigger the answer in her mind. Subtle suggestion could've worked more effectively, but Harry was tired of being polite. He didn't have to go after the information. She automatically reacted, transmitting the shock of being told that her daughter's body was recovered from the lake. The woman didn't answer him, but he saw it flash in her mind. Emotionally hysterical people, whether from grief or habitual feelings of helplessness, advertised their thoughts. He didn't have to go after them. He didn't have to remind himself that he was taught this skill by a master.

The mere act of having to acknowledge the word, 'daughter' triggered his defenses. It forced him to think of his own, and hide her from the world, even in thought. If this woman wanted to talk daughters, that was her choice. But _his_ daughter was off-limits. He did not speak of her in public. If he knew nothing else about protecting her, he knew not to do that. Her existence was a matter of whispered speculation and it could stay that way as far as he was concerned.

"You think I'm standing on this stage because I'm some hero? No, I’m up here because of this." He pointed his wand to his head and flung the tip out towards the audience. The memory expanded between him and the lady. It was a scene of the last day of battle, and the castle lying in rubble, with dead students, teachers, and Death Eaters alike. The audience gasped. Harry's magic was projecting what he'd experienced, without a pensieve. Even security stopped in their tracks.

"Do you see that? Do you see that no matter who these people were, innocent, evil, young, old, they all bled the same? They all died the same? Voldemort wanted everyone who refused to serve him, dead. Unfortunately, that included your daughter."

The woman stumbled back, knocking over the folding chair behind her.

As the edges of the memory spread, an image of Lavender Brown with her neck torn open, flashed for everyone to see. A second later, Fenrir's corps, fangs just visible, paired with it.

"I'm here to pay tribute to your daughter and everyone who didn't come out of this. Did you come here to blame me for your daughter's death? This is Lavender Brown, a lovely, besotted seventh-year Gryffindor. And this is Fenrir Greyback, the werewolf that ripped her throat out. I saw this. You weren't there, I was. So don't tell me I don't have a right to be on this stage talking about these people, their fight, and their sacrifices. I'm not trying to bring your loved ones back, and I never said I could. I'm up here because this is my personal experience and I have a right to talk about what I've been through, with those who want to listen, who want to come as close to knowing why their loved ones died, as I can provide for them. I need to talk about it. It's too much to hold inside. That's why we still come together the way we do. It's support and it soothes the nightmares that we all live with."

When no one challenged him, when he saw that backs had straightened and people were leaning forward, he continued.

"I don't have any answers, but I do have unalterable moments that speak more strongly than I ever could. If your daughter was an innocent casualty in the battle, appreciate that she didn't die like this. If they pulled her from the lake, then she was probably on the bridge that collapsed with Death Eaters. She was right in the line of battle and helped Neville Longbottom slow them down. That bridge took out over a hundred Death Eaters. She wasn't hiding in her room, that's for sure."

Harry didn't have his own memory of what that moment looked like. But he had Neville's account and he knew what it looked like as Neville had described it to him. Murmers went up when he showed it to the audience. People stood as the scene spread out in panoramic detail before them. At the moment when Death Eaters stomped and swarmed from the forest, tearing down the wooden planks to make an example out of Neville, the moment they got past the last of the barrier holding them out, Seamus' bombs lit the joints in the bridge. The night sky filled with suspended bodies that had no ground beneath their feet. Those in Harry's audience, saw the closest record they would ever see of Voldemort's followers dying en masse.

"All the kids who where able, tried to save their stronghold, their home, their school. That's why your daughter died," he told the woman. "If that doesn't give you any comfort, then you've come to the wrong place and there's nothing I can say to make your loss, right. It's not right and it never will be."

The woman looked stricken. When she could speak, she asked with quivering lips, "How are you doing that without a pensieve?"

"Magic," Harry snapped back. His tone was unyielding to her grief. Now was not the time to explain that he'd spent the last two years cross-purposing his patronus energy into projecting his memories. Time spent with war orphans forced him to hone the trick and have something to offer those he encountered. Teaching one or two, to create their own patronis, gave them common ground enough to open up to him and to unblock the trauma of the war. When he saw that his efforts had a real impact, that it released something in him as well, he went with it.

The woman sunk back into her seat, ashen.

Harry wasn't done with her. He knew the audience was listening closer than ever, and the woman was the perfect catalyst for delivering a message to his critics.

"I am no more responsible for your daughter's death than I am for Lavender and Fenrir. I fought to end the war. I, and countless others, fought to keep the war from reaching your daughter. We failed. We are forever scarred by that. If we need to come together and talk about it, until the worst of the pain is gone, then that's what we'll do. It's a celebration of survival, as much as it is a tribute to those we miss. I've tried not talking about it. Believe me, when Voldemort was defeated, I just wanted to go underground and hide from the fallout and the publicity. But doing that lets people like you, people who can't get passed their loss, waste in grief. You came out today because you didn't want to waste. You're tired of it. You're fighting it, just like your daughter felt the call to fight. You came here hoping for something to let you connect to her. I came out hoping to ease someone's pain and make them feel better about getting on with life. Did we both get what we wanted?"

The audience had been stunned into silence. Harry gave up and cut his speech short. He left the stage kicking himself for not controlling his annoyance. He'd barely made it into the wings, with several other guest speakers offering sympathetic sighs, when he heard applause at his back. Two retired aurors and officials encouraged him to return to the stage, but he refused. He did however, hear the Minister congratulate him in front of the audience. "And that, ladies and gentlemen, is why we come together as we do. No greater statement, can I give you, than the harsh reality survivors live with, as shown by the very mind of Mr. Harry Potter. I do not apologize for the graphic nature, if that's what it takes to remind our detractors why we celebrate our survival nearly two years on, and why we take time to remember properly."

For those who were not on the front line of battle, for those who only had the half-truths of newspapers and mysterious disappearances of friends or family, muggle or magic, who survived it all by holding their tiny little corner of daily work and life together, Harry's accounts put their lives into perspective. There were shops that didn't make it. Neighbors that never resurfaced. Onlookers knew exactly what had happened on their timeline. Harry's accounts allowed them to triangulate their place in the war and see that they were standing on victory. Not just over some wizard downfall, but over all they feared.

Harry brought the heroes back to life when he talked about them. He made them real again when he let the audience in on Dumbledore's Timeturner, or Hagrid's nervousness the first day as a teacher. When he revealed what Umbridge did to him, or what it was like to stand before Tom Riddle in theTri-Wizard Tournament, they were in the grip of history-come-to-life. Mouths open, silent, and eyes glutton for more, they really did appreciate that he had been there. Even those older wizards, who refused to take him serious because he was barely twenty, nodded with respect after he finished speaking.

It was usually then that he did something no one else had thought of. He allowed the faces of all he honored, all he remembered, to show through his thoughts, to a gaping, mesmerized audience, as he called out their names one by one. Every person, from Severus Snape to Remus Lupin, projected from a real-life experience of Harry's, to the onlookers who had no reason to come into contact with those key players behind the scenes of the war. For five seconds, projected against a backdrop of black vapor behind Harry's head as he spoke, Voldemort stared all of them down, as he'd stared Harry down. The sight of that gaze confirmed that many of them would not have survived such an encounter. For five seconds, everyone witnessed Severus Snape turn to Umbridge and cover for Harry, saying in his most stilted voice, "I have no idea." By then, those words would've come full circle and the audience will have understood that Snape had lied to protect the truth.

People seemed to forgive and let go when Harry matter-of-factly told why he was there in this way, and as he allowed others to see what he knew. They understood that the window into his mind, was a privilege that he did not have to give. It wasn't long before others, like Gilderoy Lockhart, began copying his lecture methods, and telling their versions as well. But Harry's presentation remained as unique as his placement in the war. And he never told the same story, in quite the same way, twice. When he started talking and warming up to an interested audience, he could always remember a moment at school, catching a snitch, sparring with Draco, or even running from a dementor, that added spicy detail and intrigue to those listening. Gilderoy, nor anyone else, could ever reproduce the fuller, vivid dimensionality that Harry's images projected onto the air around him. It was as if his aura acted as a prism, producing full-bodied holographics. He was working on sound, but he wasn't there yet. If he could hear Snape's blood-freezing voice in his mind, and he could, he was sure he could get it to sync with the image somehow.

Learning to put his memories together for a targeted presentation, and even sharing spontaneous memories so vividly, gave him a new tool for communicating and cutting through the barriers of strangers. Harry's speaking engagements, at first few and ceremonial, grew to such popularity, that the new Minister, Vector Banks, quickly monopolized on it and created an entire Post-War Relations Committee around the outpouring to hear Harry's Tribute Speeches, as they called them.

Minister Banks, the nephew of Griselda Banks, used her ties to the Wisengammot, to pad his ten years in the Department of Ethics and Relations before she retired. When word got around that Embassy Officials, both magical and non-magical, were securing seats to Harry's presentations, and whispering about 'Underground events finally coming to light in that other world,' the Minister demanded to know what it would take to gain Harry's loyalty and happiness as a Ministry team-player. Until then, if Harry didn't feel like taking on engagements, he didn't. There was no getting him to intern or to take running for any office seriously. His free-will way of coming and going from Ministry-regulated affairs, made the new Minister uncomfortable.

Banks had that same greased wheel, suit and tie ambition, that seemed to be a requirement for all Ministers. At that first presentation, he had pulled Harry off to the side, his emerald earring glistening. It made Harry wonder if the Minister's Gryffindor qualities had been slightly more dominant than his Slytherin style. He wore forest-green pinstripes, kept his dark-rust hair clipped to boxed precision, and let one side of his mustache go as snow white as he dared, to elicit magical charm from those who were not expecting it. Sixty looked like fifty on him. He smelled of a younger man's aftershave and handled a crowd like he was the ring leader of a circus. The way he drove his gaze into Harry, advertised that he was a proud student of Mezmer and had courted his way into politics from an early, protege determination.

A foot taller than Harry, energetic, and well aware that he had something to prove in the wake of his predecessors, he appealed to Harry, "You must give me something. Some commitment. These people love you! Politics has left a bad taste in their mouths. The legal system, worse. The polls show that you're the only reason sixty-five percent of voters are still reading the Prophet. That, to me, makes you an asset. I can keep you connected to the people who want to hear you, but I need some measure of agreement from you. Insurance. Tell me what I can do to keep you from running off with the next younger, prettier deal. Let me create a position for you. All you have to do is keep talking to the youth. Keep the veterans in comradeship. In other words, keep doing your thing. Are you and Draco happy? Do you need bigger quarters? More privacy? Let the Ministry hire you properly, so that everyone knows you're one of us."

Harry eased out of his grip. "We've talked about this, Banks. I'm not one of you and I'm not choosing sides. I talk to the people who want me to, that's all. This is healing me. I'm being very selfish and I refuse to obligate myself to anything outside of my family."

"But you're so good at it. The Ministry will pay you to do what you love."

"I don't love remembering the war. I do it because I have to. I have to connect with people and get the infection out of my system. When people listen and see that someone else shared that darkness, relief comes to both of us. Those kids open up to me. They tell me things no one else will ever know. When I tell them my story, they finally feel permission to let go of some horrible burden. You can't pay me enough to go through that journey with someone. It can only happen as long as I want to do it. As long as I need to heal. I'll give my presentations as long as they seem to be helpful. I can't give you, or anyone, exclusive rights to my experience. You'll just have to trust me."

Victims, made mute by the horrors of Death Eater crimes, regained their voices at Harry's lectures. Orphans related to him, an orphan himself. And childless parents looked for the faces of their dead, in the sporadic memories he allowed them to see. Rumors grew of the cathartic experiences taking place at his speeches. Speeches became lectures. Lectures won notice.

Harry retold his stories, not to dwell on the past, but to show his gratefulness to have a future. It was always perfect timing when he closed his presentation with, "No matter who you are, or what your story is, you and I have the most important thing in common. We came through this. If we're here, and others aren't, it means we have to get on with a new beginning."

He always thinks that he wants to talk about his daughter at that point, and validate all the rumors. He wants to prove that Iece's presence was just as much a cruel card dealt by Voldemort, as losing a loved one or becoming an amputee. At the time, she'd spun him into another dimension of lost and powerlessness. He'd had no idea what to do with her or himself. And now he loved her. But that was too personal. That was too reckless. She didn't deserve the hunger with which they'd turn their curiosity on her. They'd all mean well, at first. But appetites would grow. His critics would find the holes, ask too many questions, and turn his desire to be honest against his whole family.

No, he'd rather show them being tortured by Voldemort, naked under the Cruciatus, before he gave them a crumb of her light.

He tried to never show the audience things that were too terrible for anyone to see. Things that he was still recovering from, himself. It was Draco's idea to create an interactive book that would let anyone access appropriate information in the form of his memories.

"It'll be like an artifact, triggered to respond to magic." Draco had used every word but 'Like Tom Riddle's Diary,' to say that Harry could control what went into it. The book would preserve history and show it in a way that the written word could only supplement. "We're talking magical artifacts. Not horcruxes."

Draco encouraged, "It's not as if you're creating a dark object. Why spell things out for people, when you can just show them?"

Harry thought about it. But the best reason for doing it came when Draco added, "Then it'll all be recorded and we can put the whole thing behind us. There won't be any reason to talk about it anymore. Anyone who wants your presentation, can just pick up your book. I don't know all the spells required for such a project, but I'm learning a lot. I'll be able to help you."

The idea of working on the project with Draco, breathed warmth into the idea. It was the first time Harry considered telling his full and true story. No matter how long he fought it, it would all come out eventually. Maybe the world would be kinder to Iece, if they knew how she'd happened. Maybe that's why he was telling the old stories. One day they were going to look at her and see how different she was. Her magic was starting to show, and it wasn't easy to understand. He was saying to them, "Remember what she's been through. Of course she's different. Don't hate her. Don't fear her. Let her live, as you've found a way to live."

Harry settled into the train ride ahead, acclimating to locomotive jerks in spite of the luxury quality of the car. It was an expensive seat, but the privacy was worth it. He never knew when he needed to relieve his magic. It was a side effect of PTSD, or so the doctors at St. Mungo's told him. _Ancid Falleptic Shock_. He used to lock himself in the closet and beat the walls until his fists bled, until Draco threatened to run off with Iece if he didn't see a therapist.

He hadn't meant to let her roll off the sofa. He'd made sure that she was wedged between pillows. She must've squirmed more than he thought she was capable back then. When he heard her crying, unusual shrill bursts stretched the length of her screams. It sounded like pain to him. It hurt him. By then, his hands were as useless as noodles and he didn't even know where his wand was. When the urge to punch something came, he'd learned to go to a closet. He didn't understand it, he just obeyed it. It was powerful and it overcame him. He didn't stop denting the drywall until there were holes and blood. Usually, he could repair the fractures enough to function and then he'd use his magic to clean and repair the wall. But that day, his useless hands betrayed him and Draco saw the walls of the closet for himself.

It was either agree to counseling, or fight Draco over who was more fit to care for Iece.

After weeks of being prodded to open up to a doctor, Harry revealed, "Rage comes out of nowhere. I'm fine for weeks. Then it's like I remember everything all at once. Not in detail, I just feel it. And I want to punch whatever's standing in front of me. It's overpowering."

Under the confidentiality agreement that Mediwizard, Avi Rankar, swore when he took on Harry's case, Harry allowed himself to acknowledge that the violence within him, might have something to do with war crimes committed against him. He and Draco shared separate, thirty-minute sessions with the wizard, before it was agreed that Harry needed therapy every two weeks. The thirty-five year-old, looked young enough to have graduated only a few years ahead of them. Stout, with hairless, equator-warm skin, he wore a medical white sherwanis, but holstered three different wands in a satin sheath around it. Intense concentration radiated from his quiet attention and unblinking stare. His manner was as subdued as the décor velvetizing his office in soothing greens and purples. Below his smoke-black hairline, a subtle, crescent tattoo with a red star, had been etched between his eyebrows. It had Harry thinking that the cultural equivalent would've been a Gryffindor Lion inked between his own eyebrows.

When Harry had turned pale and froze under questioning, Draco supplied some details.

"He locks himself in the closet to protect us."

Harry noticed that Draco was shrewd and didn't lose his poise at the mention of Death Eaters and torture. How eerily 'Malfoy' of him, it was. In telling his own story, which Draco assumed was common knowledge by then, he thought he was keeping Harry from having to tell his. They'd worked out that Harry's fits had something to do with having the choice to be a father completely taken away from him.

"I was the subject of Voldemort's curse," Draco volunteered. On Avi's sofa, which glowed velvety forest green, he shifted beside Harry.

"It changed my body. At school, Harry and I engaged intimately, without knowing the dangers. I nearly bled to death. So I suppose, even though my body is completely normal now, a part of him is still reacting to that huge mess. The war kept everybody running. We never got time to adjust to anything. Changes hit us so fast, and kept coming. Not only is he trying not to hurt me again, there's some people he would like to hurt. But those people are gone and they're not going to pay for what they did. So how do we stop him from feeling all that?"

Avi didn't accuse them of withholding information. If that was as much as both were ready to venture into the pain, then that was fine. He used all three wands to measure subtle energies around them and take readings of their magic-biology. Without coming to any conclusions, he scheduled visits to get Harry more comfortable talking to him. It took four sessions to get Harry to say it.

"Okay. I was…"

"It's one of the most common, unreported crimes there is. It happens to thousands daily, male and female. In times of war, the numbers go up exponentially. You are not alone, Mr. Potter. It's a crime of power. By the age of seventeen, ten percent of men experience some form of sexual assault. Those are just the ones who admit it. And even then, it usually takes them years. It is a professional estimation that that number is far greater than we can confirm."

Sighing, Harry tried again. "I was raped."

There was no relief. There was only a fist-curling surge of anger as Harry imagined shattering the skull of the wizard staring back at him. All of Avi's composure looked like mockery. No man, that competent, that masculine, and intelligent, could possibly see Harry as anything but pathetic. Oh, sure, the doctor part of him had a job to do, to make Harry feel normal. But the man - Harry could see it - sneered in disgust. _No real man lets that happen to him,_ Avi's soul whispered behind all the intellectual jargon.

"Harry, anyone can be overpowered. It can happen to anyone. Faster than many suppose."

Does the intellect ooze, like brains, if you drive your fist into the nose and crack the skull open to let all that superiority spill out?

It wasn't just what happened. It was that word. It was having to say that bloody sickening word. It would hit Harry in the middle of the day, or in the middle of a conversation. It wasn't going to let him forget. It wasn't like saying you got your ass kicked, or you lost the fight. It was telling people someone held you down and took every ounce of dignity you had left. They made you less than dirt. They wiped your face in shit and you took it. You took it. Because you couldn't stop it, means you somehow consented to public humiliation and lower life form ridicule, as the new status people regarded you with when they found out.

And they had to find out because the legal system claims you're hurting others if you don't drag your own shit out into the open for everyone to discuss. Like they'd know better than you. Just thank god, or whoever the fuck was running things, that that's all you had to admit. Your best mates were behind you, including Draco. You told the court that you were drugged and assaulted, along with all the other victims who got done to, under the general label "war crimes." But you didn't tell them the details because you couldn't quite bring those into focus. You didn't tell them that all you knew was that your body was different and there was this thing growing inside you. That you did your best not to think about it so that you could concentrate on destroying fucking horcruxes. You didn't tell them any of that.

The man sweating on top of you, bearing his teeth, and gloating to see it hurt just as much as he supposed you made his son hurt, is behind a pane of glass. He's dangerous. Even the deceptive color of his long hair is dangerous. He's like one of those man-eating plants that lure their prey close with immaculate beauty. Go on, touch the pretty white flower. But he can't hurt you now. He's on one side of the glass and you're on the other. And that fucking audience behind him saw it all. Including your friends. That's okay. They're on the other side of the glass too.

That was as much as Harry could recall from that conversation. When he came to, Avi's wand was drawn and his office looked like a pack of wolves had run through it. Classy globes and brass knick-knacks were missing from the desk. Paper littered the carpet, and velvet cushions lay heaped on piles of curtains torn from their frames. Avi's hair held the remnants of incense and feathers from his antique pillows. His mouth was bleeding. Harry learned later, that the injury was from attempting to duck behind his desk when Harry sent his crystal paperweights flying. Without reaching for his wand, Harry's hands seemed to be happier doing the heavy lifting without magic because, "It feels better when I actually feel the objects break in my hands. I can pretend I'm breaking his bones."

Avi had temporarily paralyzed him to get him to stop. This was why Harry needed a closet whenever his memories tried to reconstruct themselves fully in his thoughts.

"I'm sorry. I know my anger doesn't make sense. I talk to kids who've been through practically the same thing. People older, younger. Then I hear from people who wish that had been their fate, instead of seeing their friends and family slaughtered in front of them. I have the nerve to tell them their lives are going to be okay, when I'm walking around punching shadow demons. I'm not being honest with people."

Avi disagreed. "People don't need to know everything. You're giving as much as your balance will let you give, and still have something for yourself, or for the people who need you. You're getting those kids through. You're getting through it together. You never promised to be able to take their pain away. All you can do is talk them through it. One day, they'll be standing in a better place, and they'll see how they made it out of the dark. You're doing that for yourself and you're trying to bring as many people out with you. You don't have to show people every little secret. Forgive yourself for having secrets. If you're going to have anything for your daughter, you're going to have to hold something back. Your true resource is your happiness. If you sacrifice that for the sake of someone else's idea of honesty, then you've truly lost the war."

Avi had sent Harry home to rest. On his next visit, he had an answer to the closet dilemma.

He explained, "Your magic is part of your biological system. If something has gone wrong with your magic, then your body will express this in parallel fashion. For instance, in some medical cases, a broken heart yields actual, cardiac disease. Your diagnostics show significance disintegration to your feedback tests. From your school records, we can tell that you're only functioning at seventy percent of your standard, magical capabilities. You've lost thirty percent of your brain's ability to conduct your magic, yet your seventy percent is stronger than that of a wizard functioning at one hundred percent."

Harry didn't need the math. He wanted to know what was wrong and how could he fix it?

"Your memory actually shows up like a stroke on our screens. The dark patches look like permanent damage, but yours is healing. We attribute this to war stress, but more importantly, it means that your body is rebuilding new connections between your intent and your magic. Since your neural bridges are burned, so to speak, where pleasure centers are concerned, your magic does not know where to go.  
Your energy gets rerouted in sporadic and unpredictable ways. Sometimes, sexual arousal is the brain's way of emptying excess magic that the body cannot conduct properly."

Harry waited to see the connection to this and the closet.

"It's a disposal, recycling system, and a rather smart one. But until you forgive yourself for what you think of as allowing your victimization, you will cross wires of natural arousal with natural aggression. The minute sex comes into play, is the minute your defenses escalate to survival mode. You just start fighting. You're still punching the person who did this to you, magically and physically. It has been very responsible, and very pragmatic of you, to lock yourself in a closet to spare your family.

Your urges appear during, what you consider to be inappropriate times, and are usually met with denial or self-blame. It's rather like a child who fights sleep. The body needs sleep, but the child's rationality is to remain awake so as not to miss something. The sleepier the child gets, the more discognitive and uncooperative its body seems to behave. Balance can only be regained through restorative sleep. In your case, guiding your body and thoughts to a healthy, natural release, is what will regenerate a healthy response within you. Not only to painful memories, but to whatever currently stimulates your sexual desire."

The connection made sense to Harry. But the prescription did not.

"The key to this, is to deliberately create the response to intimate stimuli that you want to have. Twice weekly, I want you to take back your privacy. Take back your right to pleasure. Make a point of finding moments alone and quickly, before you can talk yourself out of it, bring yourself to sexual climax. Be done with it, and go about your business. This reinforces the place for pleasure in your life without it becoming even more of an emotional hurdle. If you don't invent a problem with it, your brain and magic cannot see it as a problem. The more smoothly experiences go, the more you will bring your magic back into alignment with the healthy person that you are."

"You've confided that you and Mr. Malfoy shared complications with intimacy. Sex is no longer what it was for you both. It's logical that the disruption in your private life is symptomatic of the disruption in your magic. You have open-ended wiring that leaves your magic no where to go. Likewise, your body tries to convert this into a sexual outlet. Because of your particular difficulties, you do not permit an easy flow for intimacy.

"Draco is right, you're afraid you will hurt him again. You want to hurt something or someone. You've already lost one family over the machinations of war, you feel you stand to lose this one as well. So when Draco isn't around and you feel arousal, you are attempting to shut it down and get back at the person who did this to you all at once. All of this blocks the natural instinct until it becomes pressurized and expresses as aggression. Your decision to self-gratify is you disrupting the violent cycle with positive feelings, before it gets started."

Holy fuck, that had sounded so crazy. He wasn't crazy. He'd been perfectly sane for putting himself in the closet, no matter what it looked like. Since Iece's fall, he'd been carrying a mountain of guilt. She wasn't hurt, but she could've been. He and Draco made it a point to spell her and everything in her immediate vicinity with protection.

That still left him and his hand for a date. Doctor-approved masturbation. Not nearly as exciting as approval would've made it back in school, when that had been the only option. He knew too much now. Correction, he knew what Draco had taught him. Or maybe he'd blown that one, first night out of proportion. Since they'd never been able to repeat it, maybe he had glorified it and made it unreachable after their fantastic fall from grace. He'd figured both he and Draco were ruined for sex forever, and they might as well take it out on each other.

There had been dates with other people. Even sex. All ending badly. After the trials, their reputations to heroic, bachelor status, had them ready to put some healthy distance between them. Both of them knew that they were being used. Dates were mostly fodder for gossip and social ladders. If a beautiful body let them forget their troubles for one blissful night, then it was a fair trade.

More often than not, Harry got to brag that women were still appealing to him, and that he had the ability to perform on command. That world of adult women actually hitting on him, was entirely new and pretty amazing, even if his stomach soured at the thought of them using him as a trophy. To the seventeen year-old, pre-war version of him, it was cool as fuck and he wasn't going to miss out on it just because some reptile decided to shit on his whole life. Every time he tried it with a woman, he was telling Voldemort, and all the Death Eaters, to go fuck themselves. That was fun at first.

Then it dawned on him that the girls and ladies who cornered him in bathrooms and parties, were so much more experienced than him, that he amounted to nothing more than a device that didn't need batteries. The only way he could make it fun for him, was to pretend they were long-waisted and flat-chested, like Draco. That their soft thighs were actually wound with cords of muscle that flexed and released to cushion against his momentum. When this wasn't enough, he let men take him home. He was still processing those few encounters, as if something simply shut down for the time it took to let them do what they wanted to do to him. He never saw the same person twice, and the one or two times he'd actually let himself have the pleasure he wanted, caused comments to circulate. He'd heard himself referred to as a "Diamond in the rough. All power, no breaks," twice at one banquet. His reputation acquired a waiting list as well as a host of quidditch slurs.

_That's no seeker. He's a bloody fucking beater's w'ot he is._

_I don't even like the game, but I wouldn't mind getting Bludgeoned by Harry._

Draco hadn't faired any better. He enjoyed sex more than Harry, but found that spending any time with his encounters, beyond the sheets, left him intolerant of them. Their lives, their careers, their problems, were petty and insignificant compared to the crucible of outrunning his father's reach and keeping his sister safe. Not to mention the unforgivable: boredom. If all he wanted was a few minutes of mental obliteration through the occasional blowjob, why was that asking too much? He was willing to return the fucking favor. Women wouldn't shut up and men wanted seconds. Draco didn't have time for that. None of them were interesting on any engaging level.

After all the crap he'd been through, he didn't want to talk art and politics. He didn’t want to discuss the news of the day or the newly appointed Minister. He had shit to do, he needed to get back to it. The drain of trying to spare another's feelings, had him resorting to putting up with whatever Harry wanted. Seeing other people, fine. Being flung on his back from a dead sleep, fine. Just don't wake up the baby. Crying with every single orgasm and squeezing Draco's throat like he wanted to choke him. Fine, as long as he didn't really. They both knew that if either of them wanted to see someone else on a regular basis, it most certainly would not be fine.

What they didn't talk about, was the time that Draco wondered if he could fix Harry. If he could make him happy again. Shortly after moving into the condo, they had one full evening together before Draco's internship started. Iece was immediately put to bed after their meal, Draco knowing full well he'd pay for it in the A.M. hours. With Harry on one sofa, and Draco across from him on the other, they turned the television off, drank wine, and watched Iece's shadow puppets charmed to play on the wall.

Draco had asked, "Do you miss my body the way it was?"

It took Harry a moment to get past the shock of Draco bringing it up. It wasn't a subject he would've guessed that either of them ever wanted to speak of again.

"Our first quiet night in a while, and that's what you want to talk about?"

"Answer me." Draco's voice sounded tight.

"Absolutely not."

"You're lying to be nice."

"Oh my god. That first time was different. We hated each other. You were suffering. Of course two virgin boys are going to entertain themselves with one of the darkest curses imaginable. That wasn't who we were, so no, I don't miss it. And frankly, I don't want to talk about it. It's an insult to us both to bring it up."

Draco had let it go. Or so Harry thought. It was weeks later, when the urge woke him and he rolled into Draco's warm scent, knowing he would be forgiven for taking without asking. But when his hand slipped into that most private of places, Draco's eyes sprung open and he waited for Harry to verbalize what he held. In the dark, with both their eyes adjusted, fire in Harry's eyes told the truth. He withdrew his hand and his body doubled backwards.

Draco lay there, assessing whether he should talk Harry down from his hysteria or simply roll over and go back to sleep. Disappointedly, he turned his back to Harry. He didn't expect to go back to sleep, but damn if he was going to let Harry see him giving a shit. The thing was, he was almost asleep when he felt Harry explore what had at first frightened him. He suppose, it was only natural that Harry made sure it was real and that he wasn't hallucinating.

When Harry's hands got responses from Draco that shook the bed, he understood that it was real. Draco had somehow willed his body to be what he thought Harry wanted. That sacrifice was meant to get Harry back to a place where it was okay to take that much pleasure in his body. Instead of simply letting his instincts take over, Harry had the lights up, covers thrown back, and held Draco at wand-point, demanding to know what evil trick it was. His grip hurt Draco's pride more than it hurt him physically.

"You idiot! You have no idea what it took for me to let you see that. If I'm that fucking evil, let me go and I'll get out of your life forever. And I'll take my sister with me."

"Like hell you will. What did you do? How long have you been able to do that? Is it a glamour?"

"No, it isn't a fucking glamour. Did it feel like one? I did that for you! I remember the fevers. I remember the swelling and what it put my brain through. All I did was retrace the steps. I made myself feel every second of what it was like and my body changed, okay?"

Harry's forearm drove into Draco's neck and didn't ease up. "How long have you been able to do that? How long have you been hiding that?"

Draco's arms were twisted behind him, pinned by both his and Harry's weight. He freed his left arm, but still couldn't get to Harry's wand. "I haven't been hiding anything. I didn't even know I could do it. I just wanted to see if I could."

He coughed as his throat went dry under the pressure of Harry's arm. "That's all you wanted that night. I wanted to see if I could give you that…again."

His vision went white before Harry let up. Harry looked like he might be ready and willing to discuss it, but Draco brought both hands together and drove them into Harry's jaw. Harry flew left, Draco pushed to the right. "I can't believe I trusted you to see that."

He got to his feet, grabbed his own wand, and pointed it at Harry. "Let me tell you something. That curse has fried my body and my magic. I didn't know I could slip back and forth until I wanted to make you happy. I didn't know for sure until yesterday. It doesn't happen all at once. But it happened faster than it ever did before. You better hope I change back because you are not worth this."

He pointed to his T-shirt and shorts, and what was now concealed beneath them. "If you ever touch me to hurt me again, I'll make you wish my father had killed you. I might have a pussy at the moment, but I am not weak. This is only temporary. I can give you one that's permanent."

Draco snatched the blanket off the bed. "I'll take my sister and never look back. If you so much as think about coming after us, your lies about who her father is, will destroy your character and your testimony. Mine's already shot. But yours sent Death Eaters to prison."

He backed out of the room, slamming the door. Harry heard him enter the nursery, hit the doorknob with a locking spell, and it clicked behind him.

Harry had the whole night to think about where he went wrong, and what he could do to fix it. But it wasn't fair to spring something like that on him, and just think it'd be okay. Draco had no idea where that put him mentally. Draco had months to live with something that dark and unspeakable. His whole family had been in on it, discussed it, made arrangements around it, and generally accepted it.

Harry had been expected to die from the first night it was inflicted upon him. You bet he'd prayed for death since that time. But Draco had always been there to drag him back to the light. Draco always saved him from his darkest moments. What scared him more than the sight of Draco's body, was the thought of what would happen if Draco's light went out for him. Iece needed him, and he needed Draco.

On the train, Harry thought again about Draco's rough kiss that morning. They were both pretending that it had something to do with the house elf Harry would come home to. Now that he'd rested with it, he was sure that the kiss was as close to obtaining Draco's expressed forgiveness as possible. Not even breaking the lock and pulling Draco against him after their argument so many months ago, had accomplished that. Months ago, Harry thought he'd had to prove it. He thought he had to show Draco that he was thankful for the sacrifice, even if he wasn't committed whole-heartedly and it still freaked him out that Draco's body knew how to do what it did.

Just like Draco's change wasn't about Draco, Harry slipping beneath the covers wasn't about himself. His friend, the only one who'd stuck by him, had offered him something. The only proper thing to do was to accept it. That's why he'd placed an extra silencing barrier around the baby's bed and a sleeping charm over her. That night, after wondering if he could do it, he'd crept into the nursery and found Draco sleeping on the floor. That night, he made it about Draco. He made it about saying 'thank you' the best way he knew how.

Draco had been right. It was easy. It was better. There was no competition. For the first time in months, gentleness took over and rage subsided. But it only lasted that one night and Draco hadn't offered to use his body that way again, until last night. Last night, Harry had been smart enough to keep his mouth shut and let Draco climb on top of him.

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Please Review! :-)

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 **A/N** : No, discognitive is not a real word.

Nothing about this is cannon. Not even trying.

I personally don't glorify war. I'm using it as a prop, just like I do all drama in my stories. I trust the reader to know that war is bullshit. I do honor soldiers, if for no other reason than they feel they must protect, and they do it, without knowing what else to do. They mean well, and that's who you want on your side if you're so focussed on war that you find "the enemy" at your doorstep. Not that there has to be sides, or that people don't have everything they need to chose peace and prevent war in their personal experience long before it gets to that point. :-)

"You get what you [emotionally] focus on". -Seth/Jane Roberts. _The Nature of Personal Reality_

I highly recommend Ester Hick's _Law of Attraction_ , which is phase two of taking back your power and training your mind to deliberately select, rather that wait for CNN, or your neighbor, to tell you what's real. Your mind is your Kingdom, don't let anyone else dictate what is and isn't possible for you. I was beaten, ridiculed, and held back in school in order to make me pay attention in class and stop daydreaming. All the adults thought they knew what love was, and what was best for me. Now, daydreaming and putting it in the form of fiction, is the happiest life I can imagine, and it actually pays me back. Can't say the same for math and science. So no, people don't necessarily know what the hell they're talking about when they throw the word 'love' around, or are making snap decisions about your life. Adults who are considered sane and rational, WILL punish children for doing what they came into this world to do. If you write, write the story that you're dying to read, that no one else has the nerve to write. Don't let anything hold you back. Something came up in my life and I had a reminder of how important it is, that my own imagination survived all that trauma. I spent years healing myself, and these playful fics are a testament to that victory. So thank you for reading and enjoying.


	4. Derailed

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harry makes an unexpected stop.

There it was again. Like dense, moving smoke, only gone the minute Harry turned his head.

Magic knows when something is amiss. Psychic muggles call it energy, but they don't always know how to separate it from their superstitions. For Harry, it kept appearing as a dark haze out of the corner of his eye. Settled on the train, passing heather and bracken, had finally lulled him to a calmer place. But each attempt to trust it, to go with it, had him noticing movement behind the panel across from his cabin. There, a window revealed the opposite cabin to be empty. It took realizing he was looking for something in there, three times, before he took it seriously enough to take out his wand and perform a scan. He had to do it from the corridor, the cabin door was locked and he didn't want to set off any alarms. The scan revealed nothing more than the train's active security system. There were heat spots and cold spots, but nothing strong enough to warrant a threat. He put away his wand and went to the toilet.

When he returned, he had the damndest time getting the door to close properly. While he wrestled with it, the temperature seemed to drop and the tips of his fingers went numb. He let the sliding door go, and watched as it glided to a close on its own. He blamed the oddity on drowsiness and stress, pulled his jacket around him, and wedged himself back into the furthest corner away from the door. The air vent blew against his face, blasting him with microbial debris from the train's aging ductwork. He didn't mind. It gave him a chance to charm his coat twice its size and cover up with his head pressed against the seat.

Plastic absorbs smells. Harry thinks he can smell the train's entire history, in its plastic upholstery. The material looks like real plaid, fabric cloth. But few things are real these days. Only the wood and steel frame of the car is real. The upholstery has absorbed thousands of layers of cologne, sweat, cold and heat in its service. Unventilated, those scents got trapped in the floor corners where ventilation never really reached. In winter, they refrigerated there. And in summer, they thawed and cooked. Freon-forced air, covered it all up in a chemical chill that Harry tasted in the back of his mouth.

It reminded him of an old-fashioned ice-box the Dursley's kept in their basement, and how he got his arse busted when he talked Dudley into scraping the ice out to make snow cones. He hadn't meant to make Dudley sick, they were honestly having fun for a change before Dudley went green and keeled over. Harry, however, had not gotten sick, and had found the ice shavings to be delicious. Cold air blowing from the window vents smelled and tasted exactly like that.

He saw no more movement from the other cabin. An hour into the train ride, he looked at his watch for the seventh time. Outside the window, desolate moors and a faded sky could not compete with the watch. It wasn't really a watch, it was a code charm. But it looked and functioned exactly like a muggle timepiece so that its real function was camouflaged in their presence.

It was no secret that he and Draco chose to live in non-magical neighborhoods. They had to look the part without arousing suspicion. And he had to remain in contact with Draco at all times. All he had to do was lift the face of the watch and see hexagonal-shaped cells behind it. The cells were part of a thin disc of luminescence. So far, the colors were programmed magically, to show six colors with different meanings: Green = We're safe. Yellow = Stay away. Red = Help/We're in trouble. Orange = Hide/ You're in trouble. Black = Unavailable/Sleep. Blue = We need to talk. White = All is well.

He had ways of talking to Draco, if he needed to. But when it wasn't safe to talk, the watch provided shorthand for them both.

He owed this bit of technology to one of the books Snape had left for him and Draco in the cottage. _How to Survive in a Muggle World_. It was just one, out of a list of books, that Snape had left written orders to read before leaving the cottage. In fact, He and Draco found themselves redirected back onto the property with each attempt to leave while ignoring their required reading. It turns out, they couldn't apparate or floo the baby at all, until they'd found the spell that removed the safety feature which allowed them to do so, in one of the books. They hadn't known they needed charms to protect her. Not until they found them in the books. Even from the grave, it seemed, Snape was making sure they didn't skimp on their homework.

While magic could always be traced, muggle accommodations provided refuge from fame, suspicion, and a world saturated by the aftermath of war. The muggle world was an extension of the wizard wars. It was certainly affected by them. But the way muggles blamed their problems on everyday politics, lack, or just plain bad luck, made Harry look upon them affectionately, as complete innocents. Woe to those who would wake up and learn the truth. Their governments would never admit to knowing the existence of a parallel world full of witches and wizards who knew how to manipulate energy, and so could not be forced into paycheck slavery just to keep warm in the winter, or to travel from one place to another. Such a government would have to admit that dragons, elves, and unicorns were real. And god only knew what else. Aliens? Why not, bring on the motherfucking aliens.

Poor muggles. It must be rough, needing to believe that there were no other creatures higher up on the food chain. If that's what it took to make them feel safe, then Harry could let them have it. They were so fragile. Hell, even magical people could be hurt beyond repair, and they had magic! No, let people have their security blankets. Better they get to enjoy some sun, before it all goes dark.

On the watch, a white hexagon outglowed the others. Harry told himself to believe it and flipped the lid closed.

He'd gotten a private car for a reason. He didn't want to think of himself as a pervert, but Dr. Rankar's instructions had so far gone unfollowed. Every time the thought occurred to him, do it quick, do it now, he dismissed it as being ridiculous. But he knew it wasn't ridiculous. The desire to punch something, or to lash out, could start as small as the temptation to tell the Minister what his two-toned mustache really looked like to his constituents. It made him look like an elderly gigolo, well past his prime. He'd been edging towards blunt honesty lately. Usually, there were no degrees between that and running for the closet so that he didn't have to hold back. But he'd learned to read the signs, the twitches he ignored and the comments he held back. His body was giving him warnings that enough emotion was built up. It needed out. He could cooperate nicely or have it taken out of his hands completely.

" 'You take back your control and your privacy,' " Avi had said. " ' Deliberately, consciously, create a positive, intimate experience to interrupt the cycle. The more of them you have, the more you give your brain a way around the pain.' "

That all sounded great in theory. But when Harry tried it, all those warm, good feelings that used to flood his body, vanished. Something dark and cold, that made him feel like he was forcing a frozen wheel, took their place. If he pushed the effort, that dark cold began to take form and began to feel like a person. He could practically see the shape of their shoulders, that silhouette of long blond hair, and hear that nasty, nasal inflection. Exactly the person he didn't want to see. Not only could his body not enjoy that, it made him sick. His mind added pressure and mass against his will. It breathed Lucius' breath and let it into him, where it froze Harry's insides.

Beneath the jacket, Harry's hand worked to find the old, effortless comfort of his teenage exploits. He remembered when it was so easy, his penis was practically a magnet for his hand and he was halfway there before he'd even touched it. He was only twenty. It wasn't supposed to be this difficult.

As he urged himself, he told himself to take it easy. The train wasn't exactly the sexiest place on earth. There was too much of a sense of wrongness about being in a semi-public place, even if the cabin was private. It wasn't private enough. It just felt wrong. But he had to beat that feeling. If he could just get this over with, and he knew he could, in minutes, if he could just lock onto something that feels good.

The image that finally eclipsed that dense mass, was the vividness of Draco pushing himself back onto the bed, shoulders to mattress, and spreading his arms in mock submission. That led to an amalgamation of Draco's mouth and hands and Harry's knowledge of what they could do. Harry knew he was hurting himself. He knew his angry grip was making bruises and scratches, but the rise of pleasure was worth that little bit of pain. He'd pay for it later, but right then he was beginning to feel. And there were things that never happened between him and Draco, impossible things, but they fed him more of what he wanted. He had never tied Draco up, never shoved him face-first into the carpet and reached beneath him for a fist full of bulge to bring him off. Never. But that didn't seem to matter to the surge on the move inside of him. He had never witnessed Draco in a forest, caught by Death Eaters, who held him against a massive redwood. They tore his shirt and held his jean-tight thighs apart so that as many hands could wedge inside as possible.

This does the trick. It's more work than pleasure, and Harry suspects he's bleeding from a scratch, but he finishes it. When he opens his eyes, he has a second to catch his breath and to shake off a heated chill. Under the jacket, he uses basic sanitizing spells and arranges himself back into his pants.

He's hardly caught his breath when he sees the orange glow. Out the window, a number of cars down, beautiful red-amber light obliterated all visibility. In its flash, tracks sprung into the air like broken pieces of noodles. Whole cars lifted and went their separate ways.

The sight was so fantastic, so off in Harry's dislodged brain, still recovering from its own seismic activity, that it wasn't completely in the same time-zone as the train. Even though it was daylight outside, Harry's brain would always see that moment as dark as night, because that's how much black smoke blotted out the day. Red sparks, molten metal, and no time to act. He couldn't even get his brain to realize it needed his wand, let alone apparate before the series of explosions got to his car. Disbelief, wonder, what to make of those explosions that shook his soul inside his skin, all went into the one second that froze his awareness in that moment.

Frozen in that second, he didn't have time to be horrified. The energy and clouds of black-red flames racing towards him, told him there was only acceptance of his fate. There was only now, and no more.

A wall of molten hell descended on him. In that suspended moment, the car went airborne and engulfed. Harry could not know the state of the toxic materials around him, that he was breathing poisons, that he was losing consciousness, or the fact that he had fourth-degree burns before the fire ever reached him. Lack of gravity and balance shredded his body against collapsing walls.

The next image his brain recorded, was a man-shaped wall of black rising between him and the flames. The sight alone, provided an insulation of cold and created a barrier between his blistered skin and the mouth of hell still ravaging everything around him.

The last thing his brain recorded, was waking up, face down in a gully of water. He couldn't move and he felt tremendous cold. His face, partially sunk, submerged to the point that his eyelashes disturbed the water when he blinked, but his nose and mouth were just above the water level, which streamed an unusual color of crimson. In that dark pool, he squinted to comprehend the reflection looking back at him. It was a figure looking down on him, with sunlight spiking through leaves behind the person's head.

Where he could not ask for help, Harry's focus narrowed to make out the watery reflection. In that rippling darkness, the features that put themselves together, mocked every hope left in his being. He saw a pale grimace, etched by ravines of worry lines, all blended in a curvature of bone too graceful for its masculine precision. Bold black outlines of hair, brow, and shoulders held rigid familiarity. But that mouth. That beautifully compressed, disapproving, line of a mouth, told Harry who the man was. Only one man looked like that. And he was dead. Snape was dead.

So Harry understood that he was either dead or dying too. In the water, he saw Snape's reflection draw closer as it bent down to him.

* * *

 

A/N: Please review!

There will be alternating points of view.


	5. Survivor

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harry is the subject of an international investigation. And he's closer to Snape than he thinks.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Flashbacks and present-time transitions, happen in the blink of an eye with my writing. I spell them out when it happens, but you could miss them.

The first thing he saw when he awoke, was a chubby face and huge bright eyes inches from his own. She was so close to him, her soft breath so disregarding of his personal boundaries, that she appeared to be looking down into his eye sockets. Indeed, one of her miniature fingers pushed up his eyelid, unwilling to wait on him to do it himself. More drool than moisture, glossed her open lips, as they were stuck apart in wonder. She only reverted to drooling if something fascinated her, and clearly, the sight of her father, medicated beyond waking, was the perfect opportunity to study how he was put together. When he smiled at her aggressive examination, the light in her dark eyes switched to high beam. She leaned closer and assaulted him with light touches of cold and slimy wetness that only someone who loved her could not be upset about. Harry accepted what passed for kisses from his two-year old daughter.

Behind her, Draco waited, sterling and immaculate in his suit, unsmiling. He wore an expression of resignation as Iece got her way.

"I kept her off of you as long as I could," he said. Behind him, rows of beds and green marbleized wallpaper told him he was in a hospital of some sort. Military-grade canvas served as walls on either side of him, and garish, paint-by-numbers still-life oils, attempted to add cheer to the clinical sparseness of the room. It looked more like a medical tent than a sturdy building.

"Da-dee! Opey eyes." She bounced on him.

"They're open. I'm awake, Sweety." He inhaled her and pretended that her short arms wrapped around him as tightly as he held her. Through his paper-thin hospital gown, he felt her heartbeat flutter. Inwardly, he laughed because she didn't smell like a child. She smelled like Draco. She was full of clean, adult fragrances that hinted of how closely Draco kept her by his side. It was simply more convenient to bathe the both of them at the same time. As a result, Draco's excessive toiletries and tidiness contaminated her. He'd been meaning to talk to Draco about it, but right then he realized that it was an oddity that perfectly expressed how enveloped and protected she was. Even the black satin ribbons in her white hair matched the lining of Draco's lapel. She was happy and healthy, showing no signs of allergies, so he'd let the talk go for a while longer. Besides, if they were getting a house elf, Draco wouldn't have to multi-task like that anymore.

A sudden jolt had his spine going straight. He barely had time to register that it started in his shoulder before it gripped him a second time. He pulled back from Iece and looked at her. Her eyes searched his in wide wonder. She giggled, showing tiny teeth, and touched her finger to his cheek. An electrical shock sent his head turning sharply away. He looked at Draco.

"That's new," Draco supplied his unspoken question. He watched with half-lidded interest as Harry suffered a third jolt.

"Iece. Stop that." Harry took her hand away. "Where'd she learn that?"

"It seems, the first thing a new house elf teaches a child now a days, is self-defense. No matter how young. She can shock the hell out of you."

Which she demonstrated on cue. This one was painful enough to have Harry rubbing his chest where she'd put the charge into him.

"Stop, Iece! That's not funny. We don't shock Daddy." He looked at Draco. "How do you make her stop?"

"Our particular house elf seems to think that she will stop just because her father orders her to. That doesn't work so well. You have to tell her she can't have ice cream. And mean it."

"That's ridiculous. Ouch!" Harry chased after the offensive finger and cupped her entire hand in his. "That's not nice, Iece. You're not to do that."

Her tiny teeth left imprints in her bottom lip as she caught him with her other hand and planted a shock to his neck. "Ouch! That actually hurt." He rubbed his skin. He lifted her and sat her down, out of her arm's reach on his knees. "Iece, no ice cream for you. I mean it."

"What kind of an elf teaches a child this? What did you do?"

Draco gave her a minute to crawl all over Harry and do her worst before rising and gripping her under her arms. He lifted her back into his lap and folded her outstretched arms against herself. When she started to pout and squeal, he bent to her ear.

"Nicee, we've discussed this. Harry needs to rest. Be a big girl and Jipsy will give you ice cream."

Iece immediately retracted her bottom lip. "Is kweem?" Her eyebrows lifted.

At the mention of the stranger's name, an audible pop sounded behind Draco's chair, and a tiny figure appeared at his shoulder. The way Draco rolled his eyes and suppressed whatever criticism was making his mouth tight, he spoke to the figure without turning.

"No, Jipsy, that was not a summons. I was just talking to Nicee about you. The summons will always be internal."

"Master Nicee summons, Sir. Her ice cream awaits."

"No. No, no, no." Tension strained Draco's demeanor. Harry watched in suspense, not sure what to make of it.

"Nicee is a child, she is not your master! We've discussed this."

The little person's conviction did not waver. "She makes the proper summons as you make it. Your daughter has learned to imitate you, sir. She may be too young to speak like you, but she plays your voice in her mind. I will not be held accountable for tricks that only she is capable of. But I will correct her. There will be no ice cream."

Harry tried to put his eyes back into his head and keep his mouth shut as Draco's face reddened. Whatever was going to play out, he wasn't missing it.

Jipsy didn't talk like any elf Harry had ever seen. Not only did she carry her own authority, she was fully dressed in what appeared to be a purple velour jump suit and white fluffy house slippers that were so furry they could easily be mistaken for cats sitting on her feet. She didn't have the long ears that he remembered on Creature and Dobby. Hers were short, pointed back, and pierced decoratively with jewelry he could only assume was crafted by elves. There were rings of gold, a few gemstones, but also dangling carved and painted things that resembled something muggles carried on key chains. Painted corks? In fact, her bald head dangled with a spray of trinkets that jiggled when she made her point.

"She will have less success of trickery as I adjust to your magic."

"Sir." Draco corrected her.

"Sir." She added brusquely.

Harry grinned. "Having some trouble?"

Draco shot him a look. "Nothing that can't be worked out. We are Jipsy's first committed family. Though she's plenty experienced in the service, she has never bound herself to one family before. My mother tells me this is quite normal and I'm lucky to have an elf who is practically a blank slate of loyalty."

"Doesn't sound like she wants to be loyal." He'd have to remind Draco that Iece was none of Narcissa's business.

"She's proud, that's all. She's a different breed and generation than Dobby. She practically insisted that I choose her."

Jipsy peered at Harry, leaning away from Draco's shoulder. "The child needs me, Sir. While I do not bow and scrape to prove my loyalty, you will know it by my care for her." Jipsy's large brown eyes intensified, as if there were a deeper meaning to this message.

Draco added, "The contract is probationary. Binding won't take effect till after one year. If we find her performance satisfactory and we have not released her - "

"Or I have not released my masters…"

"If she learns to not speak over me -"

"If Master Malfoy learns to speak accurately, I shall not need to correct him."

The way Draco closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose, Harry wondered if the two could actually come to blows. He hadn't seen Draco make such a mature attempt at patience since the trials. He did great with Iece, but with adults he considered to be stupid, he regressed to the Draco Harry remembered from school.

"If she's still with us in a year, the contract will automatically upgrade itself to life-binding."

"Pardon, Master Potter. I insisted on the amendment. It in no way implies my loyalty will be compromised. It's just that the members of the Potter-Malfoy family, are aligned to a volatile arc of magic. Your lines have joined against tradition, and therefore opens new blood-magic into this world. It may throw Jipsy off. It may throw both masters off. But Jipsy is here to tame it all the same. I outbid all others to serve the Potter-Malfoy House. I have bound myself to no other masters for this reason."

Harry had a bothersome thought. He asked Draco, "If Iece can mimic your summons, doesn't that mean she's reading your mind?"

Jipsy answered before he could. "She's two. Pardon, Sir, but the only thing in his mind that holds any meaning or comprehension for her, is ice cream. The rest is out of her scope and her reach. As she grows, she will see more. But only in so far as it is of interest and relevance to her. I have many disciplines to help you both in this matter."

Draco too, appeared to reflect on this. He seemed appeased by the elf's assessment that his thoughts were more complex than a two year-old's.

Harry had questions, but a series of insights left him at a loss for words. He liked the way Jipsy talked. He liked that she could stand up to Draco. He wasn't sure if her reasoning was sound, but at least she had some ability to reason. But things were happening too fast. How had Draco managed a contract so soon? And was she implying that she'd known the job would come to her in a form of precognition?

Before he could tackle any of this, he asked, "What day is it? What happened to the train?"

Draco leaned forward. "That's what everyone wants to know. You've been out for two days, and it took them two days to find you. You were thrown clear. Not a scratch on you, but your clothes were a mess. Burned and falling off you. You were saturated with healing magic and tested positive for skeletal and tissue restorative substances. There were thirty-one survivors. It's like someone treated you all and put you back to be found. The Ministry doesn't know if the train explosion was due to deliberate attack, a possible assassination attempt on you, or if it was just a left-over spell from the war. The area is known for un-detonated traps left by villagers and Voldemort's supporters alike. People lose limbs just going for a stroll. The more remote places were heavily impacted by the war. They're pretty uptight about outsiders there."

Harry did his best to digest this news. He scanned his body for pain, finding mostly stiffness from lying still. "But it was Snape. I saw Professor Snape. Clear as I'm seeing you. I've been in this room two days?"

Draco went tense. Not because of the mention of Snape, but because it indicated unseen trauma to Harry's brain. "Yeah, mostly. The Ministry can't hush this up. Too many people were killed too publicly. Seventy-one passengers, to be exact. Seeing as how you're okay, we didn't want you at St. Mungo's, with all those reporters hanging around. This is an old hotel basement in Dunwallen, about thirty kilometers from the derailment. Refugees from surrounding villages were brought here during the war. The tour's still on but the opening parade and ceremonies are postponed while the Ministry investigates and the muggles bury their dead. It's being called muggle terrorism to suppress rumors. That's what the Irish Republic and European Unions are saying as well."

"Shit." Seventy-one people. That sounded like an attack. That sounded like terrorism. But why would Snape show up out of no where and risk being seen?

"How could Snape possibly know I would be in the middle of an attack?"

"Harry, Snape is dead. If you were thrown from the train, you could've had a head injury."

"Which Snape healed."

"Even if he's somehow alive, why would he be in the middle of this? How would he know you were one wizard on a train full of muggles?"

"That's my question, exactly."

"That would put him at the scene of a crime and make it look like he had something to do with it."

"But he saved me. He stepped out into the open. If he wanted me dead, he could've left me there."

Draco pulled Iece closer against him. "Listen to me. That sounds crazy. You saw Snape die. I saw his body. You've glossed over his flaws and deified him ever since you learned the truth about him and Dumbledore. When that train derailed, you were as good as fucking dead. Your brain created what it needed to see. I don't know who put you back together, but it wasn't Snape. Villagers are good at hiding magic in those parts. That's how they survive. They have all kinds of bullshit folklore about evil spirits hurting muggles and good witches making them proper again. The explosion got everyone's attention. Magical people in the vicinity would've combed the area to try to help survivors without being singled out. Just be grateful you're alive and don't mention Snape's name to anyone. He still has enemies just like you do. Even if there was a shred of truth to it, you'd better not say a word. People will go there looking for him."

With that, Draco drew a long velvet, black bag from inside his coat and tossed it onto Harry's bed. Before Harry could reach for it, the wall partition split for Minister Banks and his entourage.

"I thought I heard conversation in here. You're awake, Harry, thank goodness! Draco's presence has been vigilant by your bedside. So much so, we have dubbed him the 'Warden'. I can only hope you're up for a visit and are able to answer a few questions regarding your ordeal. I have a tent full of anxious aurors just waiting to question you, but I must get the story from you first."

Aside from his staff, several reporters and two photographers walked in with him. Their flashes went off, immediately inciting offense in Harry. Draco was quick to take out his wand and flick it at Iece's head. "Deflectere!"

Immediately, she turned her head and Harry could only see her profile. But when he leaned, trying to catch her face to see exactly what Draco had done, all he saw was her turned head. The visitors had her climbing Draco's chest and clutching at his coat. Another flash went off, lighting up her hair.

"Draco, what the hell." Where was her face?

"She's all right," Draco assured. "Those rags keep trying to take pictures of her. They don't care that she's only a baby."

The spell was a protective measure. No matter which way Iece was sitting, any angle made it look like she had her head turned away.

The Minister rushed over to Draco and the baby. "This little one, I don't get to see enough of." He fixed his fingers to grab her cheeks, but couldn't seem to find her face. "You boys can trust your Minister. Now where is that cutie pie under all that angel hair?"

As his fingers prodded, the resulting pop cracked into the room and Harry saw him quickly jerk his hands back to himself. He and Draco looked at one another. If the sound of that shock was any indication of the strength of the voltage delivered to Banks, Harry felt sorry for him and had no adequate words of apology. Draco looked smug, letting the Minister's retreat speak for everyone in the room.

The Minister tampered his surprise with professional courtesy. "Well, I see you boys have started her training young. Good for you. A beautiful witch can't have enough spells in her arsenal to keep the boys away."

That awkward comment destroyed Draco's remaining patience. He handed her to Jipsy. "Take her to the Grey Estate. I'll join you shortly."

Harry knew that was code for one of the Malfoy properties in Holland. Before he could protest, Draco spoke over Vector Bank's interruption. "I have business there and my parents are legally warded out since it passed to me. If you'd take an interest in your own properties, she could go where you wanted her to go. This is not the time or the place to fight me on this."

Another flash went off in their faces, along with the Minister's laughing assessment of their domestic dispute. Harry let his silence tell Draco that he was right. He wouldn't argue this time. It was only a matter of time before Iece had her face on the cover of some gossip rag. He couldn't fight it forever, but he could protect her childhood.

"Take her."

He'd never bothered to look into the real estate left to him by his father or his God-father. He knew Gringott's held all the documents, but his first priority after the war had been mental stability. He was so used to doing without servants and mansions, he wasn't eager to unearth a past riddled with the murders of his family, no matter how much money lay strewn on its path. He could teach Iece to live without all of that. That was one blessing that came out of his hell with the Dursley's.

He never realized the pressure put on Draco to maintain his family's wealth and to rebuild its status at all cost. Draco lost sleep calculating his next move in a network of old money that called him family and regarded Lucius' dishonor as a black mark for which his son would have to atone. They were an invisible people, a part of society that sat outside of it and decided banking policies, trade infrastructure, and who among nobility, would become royalty, all for the sake of keeping a world-engine going. Money was only a decoy, to keep the unenlightened working and fighting for their various causes. Can't have the cattle restless. The average person had to wake up with a reason to fight another day. Real power was not about money. It was about knowing what an illusion money was, and Draco had inherited the burden of maintaining that illusion. Harry knew, he did it for his mother, who would not let him cast Malfoy pride aside entirely.

That's as far as Harry wanted to venture into that dark, lawless abyss. Draco was taking care of his sister and doing right by Harry. As long as he was, Harry would give him room to move.

Since coming to know Draco, he'd realized he'd been prejudiced against rich people. He never thought of himself as rich because his first eleven years of life had been engrained with watching the Dursely's pinch their pennies and openly blame him for being a drain on their resources, as if he could help needing to be fed and clothed. Even when he got his vault, his sense of abundance and lack, had him suppressing the guilt of having it, and not being able to share it with Ron and his family, who would've been insulted by the handout. Family bonds made poor people suffer to stick together. Draco made him realize that family bonds did the same to the rich, who could afford to keep their suffering hidden. Nobody got out of the battle between being loved and being free.

He let Iece go without the good-bye squeeze he so wanted to give her. Jipsy popped out of sight.

The eyes that Harry turned on the Minister and his crew, were not friendly. He knew that wouldn't matter to Bank's ambition, and his expression would only sell more copies of The Prophet. Before Banks could sink his teeth in, three new faces emerged into the room, led by the mediwizard Harry recognized as his doctor, Avi Rankar, whose tone was sharp.

"This is a sickbay! Please do not accost my patient for your political agenda, Minister."

Banks raised eyebrows was the only sign of his offense. Extra grease slicked his smile until it reached to his ears. "Beg pardon, Doctor. I answer to the masses. I am all that stands between tens of thousands and the answers as to why this community has suffered a most grievous attack. Mr. Potter must be questioned sooner rather than later, as the public has already waited days without news."

Avi stepped up to him, while his assistants hung back. "It's up to me to assess if my patient is stable enough to be interviewed. It is up to the aurors waiting outside, to get his statements. And it is up to you to stay out of our way and let us do our jobs."

The Minister bowed slightly. "Fault me if you must. I am only guilty of rushing restoration to the wizarding community. The sooner we have answers, the sooner Mr. Potter can get on with the tour. I do not apologize for my methods."

"And I ask only that you take your people out of here, not apologize." To aid his position on the matter, Avi was joined by two more figures wearing security stripes affiliated with CIUM. Central International of Unified Magic.

The man to Avi's right spoke up. "Minister, muggles were involved. This is their rescue. This matter cannot be quarantined within the wizarding community. You must step aside. The agency was put into place to handle these matters far more effectively."

This was a large, silver-haired man, whose girth was sufficiently concealed behind a tailored navy coat, sporting the insignia of Admiral on his shoulders. His accent could not be tied to one continent. "This is possibly a terrorist act against all allied parties, and is now in the hands of the International Agency between magical and non-magical citizens. Rankar is Harry's doctor, and since Mr. Potter is a magical survivor among muggles, the CIUM, has taken over this investigation. You will have whatever information we see fit to pass on to you, but you have no jurisdiction where this investigation is concerned."

"Ah yes, but Harry is a British wizard-born, and his citizenship puts his case in my jurisdiction."

"Not in this case. Muggles are carrying out their own investigation. We've had to disclose that Harry is a survivor and will be subject to questioning by muggle agencies. These factions do not know about magic, and the CIUM has to make sure that Mr. Potter cooperates without revealing the nature of the magical kingdoms. We are here to facilitate relations in a smooth investigation that does not breech the secrets of our world."

The Minister's smile slid down his face. He shot back, "It took two days to find bodies. Lives could've been saved if wizards were allowed to work magic unimpeded by the CIUM."

"It is policy to let the muggles use their rescue equipment, even at the loss of life. We cannot compromise our world. Their infrared technologies, hydraulic jacks, and cranes will just have to appear to be all that can be done. If they see our magic, we have the burden of obliviating them, which destroys the integrity of relations between magical and non-magical."

"Meanwhile, people are dead who might've been saved with magical skill."

"Most were disintegrated in the explosion. Many tossed for miles. It's a wonder we found Mr. Potter in only two days, let alone alive and barely scratched." The Admiral nodded towards Harry. "It's as if you weren't on the train at all."

By the time Harry picked his jaw up off the floor, he knew that Draco was right. Whatever had taken place in response to the derailment, this was not an atmosphere in which he could casually talk about seeing Snape. The Minister left, red-faced and Draco was allowed to linger as Avi checked him over. He and Avi made a pretense of catching up while Draco hardened his stare, willing Harry to stay in control. Aurors working at the level of the International Alliance of Magic, questioned him first. Then local and regional authorities were given two hours to take down everything he could remember. Draco was asked to leave, but he returned as soon as they were gone.

When they were alone, and Harry knew he was going to be detained at the hotel, Draco drew his attention back to the velvet bag. "Cheer up. You're safe. Your daughter is safe, and I'm told they have adequate room service in the suites upstairs."

Harry pulled a wand box out of the bag. As it came out, a new watch fell onto the bed.

"Needless to say," Draco added, "Your watch and your wand were never found. If you don't like the wand, it'll do till you can get your own."

Harry was trying very hard to say the words 'thank you,' the way they were meant to be said. But the more he looked at his new wand and the replacement watch, the more he resented not having adequate answers. The watch called to him. It had been fastened to his wrist and spelled not to come off. The crash had been violent enough to disintegrate his clothes. His watch should've been melted into his skin. In his mind, a wall of flames rushed up to him.

He regretted being detained for the investigation, for many reasons. The loss of lives couldn't be helped. He was damned tired of death following him everywhere he went and had cried enough over it in his teenage years. He hated that he would miss his first quidditch practice with the Americans, but he'd make up for it. At least, the next few days would give him time to go over every inch of the Ministry's records concerning Snape's death. If he had to, he'd search the place himself, to prove that he did in fact, see Snape in the water's reflection.

 

***

 

Doctor Ash Hastings left the medical area, following behind Admiral Bicksby and Mediwizard Avi Rankar. He pretended to hold only professional interest in their discussion of the young man they'd just left, as they talked ahead of him. He'd always been good at following orders. Not happy about it, but good. Good enough to work his way up to medic in his six-year Army career. Not a soldier, per se, but a damn resourceful field doctor. Two decades on, and he found himself consorting with wizards. Not bad for a Sidney lad, a world away from the sticks and houseboats he grew up in.

Foster's instructions to him, had been very clear. "Keep your head down. Say nothing. Observe. If a witch or wizard senses your interest, they will close themselves off to you. Act as if any magic you see is no cause for concern and you will be allowed to stand in their presence. Those who are in agreement with the discretionary involvement of non-magicals, will be wearing the IA insignia. Do not trust anyone without it."

Foster had a way of speaking that made Ash's goal very clear. Do anything to fall short of his instructions, and this would be his first, last, and only chance to move forward in their trust. Foster trusted no one, and he was only awarding Ash with the chance to be useful because he had no one else in just such a perfect position.

"The only survivors were the ones found in Harry's car," the Admiral was telling Avi. "The passenger chart shows that his cabin was private and that his car was supposed to be relatively empty. Only one other passenger booked that car and he never showed. You've seen the injuries. Are they consistent with Harry's?"

"They are. All thirty-one show rapid tissue growth and traces of complex magic, though Harry's treatment is the most complete. It's as if the rest were treated in haste. The most life-threatening injuries were tended to, but secondary wounds were left alone. I don't want to underestimate the locals, but there's no registered wizard on record, within a hundred kilometers of the crash site, qualified to administer such treatment. On the other hand, the area is quite rural and cut off. Villagers are reputed to be self-reliant and very good at minding their own business. That usually means they still have ties to an old network of Pre-Christian Paganism. A skilled witch or wizard could make themselves useful among them."

"But it makes no sense to rescue the dying, remove them from the wreckage and then leave them to be found with Harry. That simply arouses suspicion. Why sabotage the train in the first place?"

"I'm no auror, but that points to an aggressor and an aggressee. Two parties who want to achieve different goals. Someone wanted those people dead, and someone tried to save as many as possible. There's your clue."

"So you don't believe the attack was deliberately against Harry Potter? I have his records, but you're his doctor, you know his history better than I do."

"I would keep him under surveillance, for his own safety. If someone is holding a grudge, they'll attempt to harm him again. But this country has seen a lot of political unrest. Muggles have their own rebellions and civil wars. There could easily have been some overlapping between terrorist demonstrations and surviving Death Eaters. Hell, the presence of an International Magical Alliance that wants to embrace non-magical beings, is enough to cause dangerous underground rallying. My advice as a wizard, is to keep an eye on this tour. If anymore violence arises, I think that will be your indicator that the source lies within the magical community and Mr. Potter is a target."

They had reached the canteen and Ash could no longer excuse his presence. His purpose had run its course. "Will either of you be needing my assistance anymore today?"

The Admiral turned to Ash, as if noticing him for the first time. "No, Doctor Hastings, thank you. You've been a terrific help. We could not have conducted our interviews so smoothly in this community without your help. Yours is a trusted face. Thank you for volunteering your service to the victims. If Doctor Avi has no more need of you, report tomorrow, same time."

Avi Rankar shook hands with the muggle doctor. "Pleasure working with you. Now that I've seen Harry, I'm afraid I'll have to head back to London. He's in good shape, mentally and physically. If you'll just look in on him for the remainder of his detainment, he shouldn't need anything else. And of course, your assistance with the other volunteers, is invaluable."

"I'll make myself available any way that I can," Ash smiled at them. He turned from the eating area, hoping they were thinking the same thing he was thinking. The collaboration between magical and non-magical doctors, was a success. Now to convince Foster. He couldn't confirm if the boy they called Harry Potter, was directly attacked, or if the whole thing was a random act of violence. Foster wouldn't like that, but that wasn't Ash's problem. He'd kept his word. Foster would have to keep his.

Ash was well aware that that was not Foster's real name. That name belonged to the young priest assigned to the local parish two years ago. The same priest slaughtered by political extremist spewing nonsense about 'Death Eaters' and reducing fields of crops to scorched images of skulls and snakes.

Two years ago, for the first time in his life, Ash had faced an epidemic of fear without knowing its source, and wondered if relocating his practice was the right thing to do. Even the destruction of Northern terrorism, hadn't affected him as badly as seeing the bodies laid out week after week, in unfathomable catastrophes, as it had two years ago. The injuries were not typically human. Skulls, still wholly intact but were crushed and concave as deflated soccer balls. No brain matter to be found. No blood, and no marks. Autopsies revealed the absence of entire organs, or arrangements so bizarre, no medical journal would allow for the possibility. He'd actually found a man's heart in his stomach. Twice. Chewed and digested and beginning to enter the large intestine, as if the men were forced to eat themselves and actually survived long enough for the digestion process to begin.

That's when he knew the Settlement was finally opening its secrets to him. He could either run, like any sane person. Or, he could stay and try to pass whatever initiation this was. He had come to Ireland after his failed second marriage, because it seemed like the last magical place on Earth. He'd just lost his home and his kids, and he needed healing isolation. He figured the loneliness would either kill him or force him to wake up from a lifetime of trying to make others happy. It simply could not be done. People were so immovably who they were. If full-grown adults had no idea how to live in happiness, what the hell made him think he could promise that to another? People didn't even know what it was. They only knew fleeting moments, and those didn't count. And don't get him started on the whole mythology of love. That was just another misunderstanding people got wrong on a daily basis.

Two years ago, he was scheduled to meet Vicar Ross Foster, at the train station. All he found, was seven massacred bodies in the pouring rain, and a survivor wandering on the moors. The nearest hospital was an hour away by rail. Ash had become accustomed to patching up the locals, but had no head for violence. What passed for law in those parts, were a man's wits and the gun stored under his seat. The stranger's behavior appeared erratic until he realized the man was fighting people who moved too fast in the dark to see. Impossibly fast. It seemed to him that they turned into smoke and mixed with the fog.

He was witnessing the tail end of murder and trying not to become a victim. He left his car, crouched beside it with his pistol, and tried to aim at the shadows in the fog. To this day, he could never be sure of what he saw. To his uncertain eye, the stranger flailed, tossing some sort of short rod around him while being struck by invisible forces. Suddenly, blue streaks lifted out of the rod and splintered like glowing shards, striking out in 360 degrees around the man's body. Solid figures began falling from the sky around him. Ash heard their breath leave them as they hit the ground. He heard ribs crunch and legs break. When the only movement was the lifting fog, and the man stumbling through it, he left his hiding place and followed, afraid to draw attention to himself, yet unwilling to lose sight of the man.

The stranger was obviously limping, obviously wounded and moving with the drag of someone taking their last steps. Ash remembered that sort of fatigue from his military days and he waited for the man's shock to take its course. When he saw him collapse, only then did he dare approach the stranger and shine a light into his face. He could've restrained him and contacted the authorities. He had no idea what side of the killings the man was on. Not really. But the fact that he'd had to defend himself against numerous unnatural attacks, had Ash driving his Land Rover onto boggy, peat soil, to maneuver the man into his vehicle. His flashlight revealed a mid-sized man swallowed in excessive vestments. His silver-grey hair, tied behind his head, plastered wetly over a harassed expression filled with tension behind closed eyes. By the time he'd secured the man with double sedation, and gotten him back to his house, the hair was jet black and Ash could see that it belonged to a man much younger than he'd thought. The dramatic, impossible change, both frightened and fascinated Ash.

Hairs stood on his skin as he hoisted the stranger onto clean sheets and set about examining him for injuries. For some reason, he made sure the shades were drawn, the door locked, and the curtains looking into his home had no gaps. Something about this man, and peeling back the many layers of his coat, cloak, robe, and suit, down to the undergarments beneath, told him he was treading on dangerous ground. He kept is pistol close. He thought the clothes were only dark with rain. Stains revealed the front of the man to be drenched in blood. It ran from wounds at his throat, down the length of his undergarments. Closer examination revealed enflamed lacerations at the throat and multiple punctures. He could've sworn that the throat had been sliced, only the tissue did not open beneath his prying fingers. It made the actions of the man, his ability to fight so effectively on his feet, all the more incredible.

He thought again to the clothes. Only clergymen wore those rows of tedious buttons. That didn't fit with the academic robe. It was as if he'd escaped from somewhere, wearing all the clothes it would've been impractical to carry. The forbidding quality of his features, even in sleep, warned that Ash was violating something, that he was not to be touched. Was this Vicar Foster? His eccentric clothes said, possibly. The tattoo of the skull and snake oozing down his right forearm, said definitely not. There was no identification in his clothing. Only an empty pouch and a decorative stick of some sort.

After he treated the most obvious wounds, he made himself tea and sat in the dark. Authorities were notified and would be arriving at his door soon. He'd already told them he'd rescued a survivor. He wished he hadn't. He told himself that this was none of his business and he'd hand the man over without ever knowing anything more about him. That tattoo couldn't be good. There was too much talk of random attacks committed by people sporting skulls and symbols of death. Even around there, where people were left to peculiar traditions, that lot was a recent disturbance thought to be from up North and not welcomed. News of bombings in nearby towns, had everyone on edge, expecting the worst before it got better. He was lucky to live so far out, but city violence got closer and closer every year.

Of course, there were things the locals didn't exactly include him in on. He knew that after five years, he was still very much a guest in their village. They were friendlier with him than they were, but he was not a member of their innermost circles. He didn't mind the distrust. It gave him the opportunity to show respect and wait for them to need him. He might not be one of them, but he was cut from the same stock that needed to live outside the rules and the scrutiny of city neighbors. Abandoned towns and lost villages scattered across the backroads of Kerry Pass, were perfect for disappearing off the map and still enjoying the convenience of television and email.

Around midnight, he got the call that Notting's Way had flooded. The pass was under two meters of stone and earth. Could he detain the stranger safely till morning? He said he could and made a mental note to inject another eight milligrams of benzodiazepine in four hours. It was then that he noticed the fever and gave him an injection of Amoxycillin just in case, for infection. He attempted to dress the man in dry clothes from his own wardrobe, but thought better of it. If he survived the night, it would be more prudent to wait before dressing him. His clothes were evidence and shouldn't be washed. Authorities would want a photo record of the state of his body. He pulled the covers over the man, locked the door from the outside, and went to his sitting room to search the net for images of the tattoo and any information he could find.

There were no exact matches to the image, but there were plenty of news reports that featured crude drawings vandalizing areas of recent attacks. There was even footage of a plume of smoke, in the image of a skull and snake, over the city of London. It could've been a trick of the light, or the process of evaporation, that made one unsure of the image. He decided not to trust the source and moved on. All any article could make of the mark was that it was an unfriendly warning of some occultist group that no one had any information on. Crimes linked it to the death cults currently terrorizing Western Europe.

By the time he closed his laptop, the sun was up and his head was pounding. A moan from the bedroom reminded him he'd forgotten to dose the man on time. He quickly prepared a syringe, placed his pistol beneath the tail of his sweater, and went in. The man was still asleep. He administered the dose without preamble, only relaxing when he pulled the needle out of the vein. Upon checking his bandages, he saw that not only had the man stopped bleeding but the laceration showed signs of accelerated healing. Redness was diminished and the punctures were already scabbed over. Just because he didn't believe what he was seeing, he pulled the covers aside to note any other oddities. What he saw, caused his heart to miss its rhythmic timing, then speed up three times the normal rate. Adrenaline literally reached the tips of his fingers in a split second, making his hands feel bloated and swollen twice their size as he released the covers over the man again.

He stood straight, reminded himself that he was in no immediate danger, and tried to take a full-bodied, one minute series of breaths. He lasted ten seconds before flinging the covers back. Full daylight fell on the man, who lay in perfect form before him. Perfect, except for the shock of no longer qualifying as male.

Last night, Ash had dressed the wounds of the man, his body normal in appearance. No irregularities, no deformities. This morning, what had clearly been there, was no longer. In the place of features any man would've been proud to claim his own, lay the mild shapes of the fairer sex. Accuracy and detail pulled his head close. His eyes strained, squinting and demanding more clarity from his vision than possible. No other features had changed. His physique had not diminished. His face had not softened. His limbs and torso retained its masculine proportions. His thighs and calves jutted with the musculature of a man, including a healthy film of hair. Only that part of him, wasn't playing by any rule set forth under Heaven, or found in Ash's medical library.

Two whiskies later, Ash sat at his dining table watching his hands shake. It was a good feeling, not like jitters before surgery. More like pure excitement. His stomach hadn't knotted itself like this since he was a boy and leaping twenty-five meters into the Pacific Ocean from Mount Martha. It was fear and overwhelming elation all at once, mixing an unstable chemical cocktail in his veins and in his decision-making. Far from sluggish, his mind had reached pinnacles of clarity. He saw how he'd grown complacent between military and marriages. He saw how he'd settled for solitude, in the aftermath of lawyers and loss, instead of claiming his diving spot before any of his friends could get to it. He remembered that feeling. That race to be first. That competition that pumped his summers with meaning. He knew he wasn't nine years old anymore, but he also knew that people were not supposed to live without this feeling. It told them they were alive and flush up against the chance to know something amazing, that no one else knows.

That wasn't a human man in his guest bedroom. Not in the conventional sense. He'd heard things. He'd sat on the fringes of acceptance in this village for five years, and waved away their superstitions. He enjoyed their services and traditions, so closely tied to the phases of the moon. Their practices were as solid as any Farmers Almanac, ripe with Christian-Pagan idiosyncrasies. Their homemade remedies and benevolent avoidance of strangers, was charming. He attended church, having hated it when he was forced to do so as a lad, for the social approbation, as they all did, not for the sermon. In fact, his housekeeper, Reuse Wintry, confided to him, after a year in his employ, that she was descended from witches. While she practiced the peaceful kind of craft, she did not possess the gifts her grandmother had. The village was, in fact, all that was left of a once thriving pagan community. King Henry VIII put a stop to most of it, but it never left their blood.

When he saw processions of candles burning on the moors at night, when his hikes brought him to the remains of animal sacrifices, he let the chill pass through him, and told himself how far he was away from home. He couldn't expect anything more from them. And truth be told, his own Aboriginal ancestry, had something to do with his ability to turn a forgiving eye on what he didn't understand. He'd been warned that the _dreaming_ was in him also.

"Go wherever the green glows. You have friends there." That statement, from his grandfather, was one of the set pieces that determined his travel to Ireland after his divorce. He didn't know what it meant, only that it comforted him.

The stranger in the next room forced him to see that 'glowing green' meant rich, unknown histories. It meant faeries and sprites. It meant witches and excitement. It meant there had to be more to life than taxes, backbreaking failure, and losing your kids because you couldn't cope without a drink in your hand. It meant magic. Life had taken away his boyhood vigor. His magic. But as he sat at his table, he felt it stir again for the first time in twenty years.

 _Do you want this?_ It whispered.

 _God, yes!_ his gut clinched in answer.

That was no mere wounded man. That was no political radical, waving threats in front of media cameras. That was someone trying to hide, undiscovered by this age. That person had fought off killers.  
It made sense now, in a way that things rarely do. That man was a wizard.

The knot in Ash's stomach wasn't even about what the hell he'd seen between the man's legs. It was about the promise of so much more. Ash couldn't begin to fathom if all wizards were anatomically diverse, for lack of better phrasing, but he damn sure had to find out. He had so many questions.

Quiet perseverance had broken through to this place. After five years, secrets parted to let Ash in. He'd proven himself worthy somehow and this dangerous being was now unconscious in his bed. He'd found his glowing green. He'd found some magic, and he wasn't turning it loose until he'd fully engaged with it. When the authorities arrived, they'd just have to learn how the man sprang awake, over powered him, and escaped onto the moors. He could live with miscalculating dosage better than he could live with never knowing anything about this creature, whom he was sure he would never see again, if he allowed him to leave. Now, how does one go about crippling a wizard so that he has to stay?

***

That was two years ago. Ash had played every card in his power, sacrificed his practice, his life, and his sanity to keep just a little bit of Foster's magic in his world. Tonight, it would pay off. The man had no notion of his effect on people. Or did he? Even when disguised as a man thirty years older, Ash had witnessed the stares he attracted. It wasn't easy to get Foster to appear in public, but Ash had been able to persuade him to let the villagers become accustomed to his English uncle.

"Let them think you have a reason for retiring here. Otherwise, they'll be suspicious of you."

They were suspicious of him. And he them. Ash had not needed to cripple him with drugs to keep him in his home. He learned that some other ailment had the delayed effect of paralysis in the right side of Foster's body. He never got the story out of him. It took days to work out that his puncture wounds were that of a poisonous bite. Many reptiles could produce paralyzing venom. Ash was left to deduce that Foster's tattoo indicated rituals with snakes. A ritual gone badly wrong. Venom that merely limited his movement, would possibly be quite deadly to a weaker person. He was grateful to that reptile. The man needed treatment and lodging. Ash let it be known that his home, and his discretion, were available. He thought he had the upper hand until he awoke one morning to find that Mr. Foster had accepted his offer, in the form of gold coins stacked on his bedside table.

That arrangement lasted for exactly six months, whereupon Foster escaped with the full use of his body and claimed an abandoned lighthouse by the cliffs of Pitter Head as his residence. Ash thought it barbaric until Foster allowed him to get close enough to see that the rubble was an illusion and enough smooth stones had been unearthed and assembled to create layers of rooms that went deep into the caves there. Dry walls, carpet, bookcases, staircases, and all the comforts of a threadbare bungalow lay hidden behind ruins. Ash knew that Foster intended for him to see it and to take note.

 _I was never helpless,_ Foster's resourcefulness seemed to say.

After he left the rescue site, Ash knew that he would not see Foster until dark. If he tried to look for him, Foster would only keep himself hidden longer. If he went to the lighthouse, Foster's barriers would only have him going in circles, never setting foot inside the dwelling, or even being able to see what was really there. He went home, ate the dry meal Reuse had left for him, and waited for the sun to go down.

There was no knock at the door. Foster was in his dining room the minute evening's light turned from white to blue. By opening his home to the wizard, he had inadvertently given Foster permission to come and go as he please. Apparently wizards didn't need doors or windows. Ash didn't mind. He only wished that Foster would grant him the same courtesy.

"Well?"

He could tell that Foster was in no mood for preamble. "I saw him. The very same boy you brought here. He's awake and fine."

"The others?"

"All thirty-one survived. They still don't know who attacked the train."

"Do they know if Harry was targeted?"

"No. They're in the dark. All they can do is wait to see if anything happens near him again. That will tell them if this is a non-magical issue, or a resurgence within the magical communities."

The room had grown dark. He barely saw Foster's grimace. Before he could reach for the light, Foster did him the favor of lifting them throughout the room. Ash smiled. "Thank you."

Silence answered him. Foster was not satisfied with the news. "Did anyone seem suspicious to you?"

"Only that Minister fellow you warned me about. And there was a boy holding an odd child in the room. No matter which way she turned her head, I couldn't see her face. That was creepy. Even weirder than the little creature."

Foster disregarded this bit of detail, but not without a crease lining his brows. He held the back of a dining chair and braced himself in thought. It gave Ash a moment to trace the outline of his coat with his eyes.

Foster and that damn coat. He tried asking once, "Do all wizards dress like you?" He hadn't seen neck ties like that since his great great grandfather's suits were fumigated and donated to the central museum of Sidney, where they sat on display today as fine a example of Early Colonial civility. Cravats? Who could blame him for mistaking Foster as the newly appointed parishioner, with his layers of tweed and wool hiding his body like some holier-than-thou prick right out of the Vatican three centuries ago. Only he knew that the wizard was packing a physique of spry, noteworthy charms beneath all those Black Widow skirts. And he appreciated them.

His question had gone unanswered until tonight. Foster had given him that look. It was a look that said he'd breached some contractual agreement and needed to back off. Ash had seen all manner of modern dress on people carrying sticks tonight. Or wands, as they preferred to call them.

Between Foster's eccentric attire, and the village coming to life with recent events, Ash took entertainment where he could find it. He didn't even mind Foster's smoldering annoyance anymore, having learned from his ex that it was perfectly natural for some people to be more comfortable with dissatisfaction than happiness. Besides, if Foster wanted him dead, as his stare sometimes appeared to indicate, he would've been dead already. No. That stare was a challenge.

At first glance, he knew that unsuspecting observers saw a mature, even aging physique of no remarkable qualities in Foster. But he'd seen how Foster used it. Energy came out of nowhere for him. He'd seen the man fold his cloak and climb a sheer wall to help with church restorations. Foster kicked dirt into the eyes of the young thugs who mistook him for a hapless newcomer once, mistaking him for an easy robbery. Ash had sat in his Rover and watched, sipping tea from a thermos. Foster did not resort to his magic in front of people. Instead, he had stomped resolutely on the boys' hands when he had them down, and gave them broken fingers to remember him by.

He'd jumped, flat-footed, over a stone wall and chased them down, wielding a stick that shot out like a riding crop and beat the head of the gang senseless before giving him up. There was energy in those concealed arms and hidden thighs, that told Ash to be patient.

As Foster paraded his peculiar, Victorian tastes, in front of Ash, Ash began to regard the shapes and surfaces he was seeing with keener and keener interest. Especially since he thought he knew what was beneath them and why the layers were necessary. It didn't figure into the first time he'd seen Foster unclothed, but those questions still lacked adequate answers. There was nothing to do but enjoy the show and make himself useful where he could. Indispensable, in fact. Most in the village knew by now, that the white-haired Foster was his uncle by marriage, and the younger, black-haired Foster, on the rare occasion they spied him, was something else to Ash. Something secret, discreet, and charmingly unmentionable in polite company. His gentleman. Ash proved that he could keep village secrets. The village proved that they didn't mind his.

With two ex-wives, two teenage children, and four mortgages under his belt, Ash thought himself past his enthusiasm for temptation. All of them were happily enjoying life without him in Melbourne. Every time he looked at Foster's buttons, marching single file down his chest, or found the crease where Foster's waist went all inward and curvy, he reconsidered his options. It had been over twenty years since his medic-in-training days, that he'd let another male get that close to him. And that was only in his weakest moments. He had no confusions about himself or his preferences. He was only now more certain of his ability to make any selection he wanted from life's variety. If he had known wizards were on the table twenty years ago, especially wizards with something worth hiding, things might've been different.

He believed, the kids these days referred to such striking curves, with the eloquence of common banter. _'...Thicker than a bowl of oatmeal'_.

Yes, Foster's curves were.

"Well? Did you learn where they're placing him next? Is he returning home?"

Ash forgot that Foster was speaking to him. "I believe he will continue on with the tour. He seemed undaunted."

"You believe? You stood right there and applied stringent faith instead of listening to the conversation?"

Ash sighed. "He will be held at the hotel for several days for rest and questioning. Every faction under the CIUM, will have the opportunity to get his story. That includes the Minister's people. He will be shadowed by hidden bodyguards and appear at the opening ceremonies next week. Until then, he has a lecture and something called quidditch practice two days apart in Edinburgh."

Foster's face lost a bit of its tension. A slight nod of his head was all that Ash would ever hear in the way of 'well done.'

It was Ash's turn to get some answers. "Now, will you please tell me what this boy means to you? I'm risking my practice to get the information you want, you could just turn into the old man and show up yourself."

"Harry would know me in an instant."

"Know you from where?"

When Foster declined to answer, Ash insisted, "Well do that thing where he can't even see you. That's how you got past him on the train."

Foster looked up at the ceiling, resigned to Ash's ignorance. "I told you. I can't risk someone bumping into me. That spell is only effective from a distance. As long as no one touches me, no one sees me. The closer I am to them, the more I seem like a disturbance in the air. I barely survived the cabin with him. I'll not put myself through that again."

Ash laughed. "You actually witnessed that. Ah, to be that young and unaccountable."

Foster whipped around. "He is unstable! You have no idea what was done to that boy. He was tortured. He's lucky he can put one foot in front of the other, let alone gallivant all over the world giving sold-out lectures. He may be forgiven for his indiscretion."

"That's not what you said when you got back."

"Unless you have anymore relevant information, we're done this evening."

Ash pulled a face. "That was short. You promised you'd stay for dinner."

"I see no dinner, and I'm in no mood for food."

Ash went quiet, his voice singing, "You promised. That was the deal."

"The word dinner was never used. Implied, but never used. I said that I would give you something in return for the favor you have performed for me."

"I was there all day and I have to return tomorrow."

"I'm not asking you to. You've given me the information I wanted. You're free to do as you choose."

"It doesn't work that way with the military. When you tell an Admiral you'll be there the next day, it's my experience that officers will come looking for you. I signed on to recover bodies and I will."

"You're no longer in the military and I didn't ask you to commit to such an obligation."

Ash placed his drink on the table. "Okay, lets skip this game and get right to the point. I'm a gentleman. You know what I want from you. I want to be more than friends. Hell, if we could become real friends, that would be a start. I want, for lack of a better word, a date. Nothing serious, just your company and to hear you speak to me in a civil tone. I've earned it."

He braced himself for the explosion of outrage building behind Foster's eyes. In the two years of their association with one another, they had never broached the subject. Ash wasn't even sure Foster comprehended human desires on that level. All he'd been telling himself for the past four days was, if he did this, if he helped Foster get to the boy, Foster would once again have a reason to sit at his table. It wouldn't be paralysis forcing him to stay under Ash's roof, eating Ash's food, and warming to the friendship he offered. It would be trust. As for the 'something more,' Ash was willing to wait and see if the wizard could allow that possibility.

Foster's explosion never came. His tirade of educated insults fell quiet behind his eyes. To Ash's surprise, he looked down, letting his dark hair fall forward and showing that he didn't always know what to say.

Score. Me, Ash thought.

Foster leaned into is weight before letting his attention resurface. For one beautiful second, he looked as if he might take a seat. Then, "I'm leaving. If there's something you want for your troubles, you should specify it now."

So that's how he wanted to play it. All right. Ash was young once. He remembered what it was like to be the insensitive jerk no words could break. He put on that face now. Foster, apparently, had an issue with gentleness and self-worth. Well, no one really likes indecisiveness anyway.

He pushed his chair back and stood, taking Foster up on his offer. He approached with caution, not fear. Foster's stern expression tried to intimidate him with each step. Ash knew that there was an unspoken link between eye contact and aggression. Foster waited to call his bluff, emitting a vaporous chill meant to deter the most determined admirer. Just before he reached his face, Ash gave Foster a chance to see that he wasn't backing down and he wasn't embarrassed. In the wild Outback, one did not win a mate that way. He might not know how to keep them, but Ash knew that he could get them.

He leaned in. When Foster didn't pull away, he sped towards his mouth. It could've been a twitch. It could've been a knee-jerk reaction. The turn of Foster's head, ever so slightly, could've been outright rejection. Ash didn't waste any time figuring it out. The kiss he gave, made sure he extracted his pay for a day's service. And for tomorrow as well. If Foster permitted him this moment, now was not the time to go shy. In fact, he advertised his skill. This had always been the healthiest part of his marriages, and the reason why they lasted as long as they did. He held Foster until he was sure the other understood this somehow as well.

Just when he thought he felt their heat rising mutually, he attempted to touch the scars at Foster's neck with one hand, and run the other inside the center of his coat. Foster gripped his wrist.

They looked at one another with something hostile and anxious between them. Uneasy reflection on Foster's face made Ash glad to see his saliva glisten on the other man's mouth. Glad, and ready to give him more. But time was up. Foster disengaged himself as swiftly as yanking attachments from Ash.

He pulled his body out of reach. His black-eyed reprimand, either complained that Ash had asked for too much, or too little, before turning and storming out of the room. Only the slamming of the door told Ash what he wanted to hear. He'd caused a wizard to forget that he could apparate. Foster had not needed a door to enter his home. But after the kiss, he needed one to exit. That was some satisfaction.

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Snape as a survivor:  [video](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=bZW-D0iIBDM&index=10&list=PLfP3By3wYC51azxPUJj71cS4eaHJOIsvS&t=0s)


	6. False Memories

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harry has to have one last look.

 

Harry thought about what he could do. Going on three hours of sleep, he sat in his hotel room and considered his options over a sandwich he'd had no appetite for the day before. Preservation spells kept it edible. It was still dark out and there was no service this early. The staff had been kind enough to fix him up with a late supper and leave him with a full electric kettle, serving his choice of coffee or tea.

Draco and Iece had appeared yesterday, surprising him when he stepped out of the shower. He recognized their voices the minute he turned off the spray. Draco used the excuse that he was dropping off the information Harry requested. "She might as well get to see you while I'm here."

While Harry threw on his clothes, Draco handed him a zipped notebook made of black leather. "You asked for these."

They were copies of Ministry files, the last definitive records detailing what was known about Severus Snape's death, interviews from those who came into contact with the body, and even a last report of his death scan, the equivalent of a magical autopsy.

Draco then set to arranging Iece at the small writing desk beside Harry's bed. He tucked a napkin into the lace collar of her shirt, another across her lap, then poured a paper tray of chips out onto another. She licked her lips, flashed her tiny teeth at Harry in anticipation, and said, "dippy shaws."

"Here's your dipping sauce," Draco assured her, removing two packets from inside his jacket. He caught the look on Harry's face. "I know, I don't like her eating this, but I promised if she stopped shocking people, I'd let her have it."

When he had her settled and singing to every chip she picked up, he frowned at the first taste of his tea. "Dammit."

Harry buttoned his shirt, knowing that meant the tea had gone cold. Instead of drawing his wand and producing an instant heating charm, Draco looked at his cup as if it presented an unusual problem. He sat up even straighter, if that were possible, and held two slender fingers over the cup, closing his eyes.

Harry stopped mid-button. Even Iece's singsong voice fell silent as she looked up at her other Dad beside her. When nothing seemed to be happening, Harry blurted, "What are you doing?"

Draco held up a finger on his other hand, indicating that Harry give him a moment. It took about ten more seconds before Draco let his fingertips touch the surface of the tea. "It's working," he announced.

"What's working? Why don't you use your wand?"

Another ten seconds, and the tea began to boil in the cup. Steam rose around Draco's fingers, who smiled triumphantly up at Harry. "I didn't mean to make it boil. I came across a thirteenth century translation on wandless magic. It was believed to be from the records of the Essenes. Well, the Artifact Department's always had it, but they're letting me have access to it. You basically turn the chemical electricity in your nervous system, into a wand. There are these little vortexes all over the body, that correspond to Chinese acupuncture. Turns out, we can send and receive frequencies through them and affect any other field around us. Muggles believe that this is how that Jesus fellow healed. Anyway, it's why touching feels so good. We're constantly sending and receiving energy. Even muggles, though it's farm more subtle in them." Draco smiled.

It was good to see that smile. It made Harry realize how rare it had become. He offered, "Since the tour's delayed, how 'bout I come home and spend the weekend with you guys?"

Draco's smile disappeared. "Don't pop in. It defeats the purpose. Every time you leave, she's up crying for you all night. For days. You're letting the accident distract you. At least let her go a week without seeing you. She's got to get used to it."

Easy for him to say. "Then I get her after the tour and we'll see how you like not seeing her for whole weeks at a time." He wanted to use the train disaster as leverage, but knew it would've sounded like he was feeling sorry for himself. He had nothing to feel sorry about, when so many others hadn't survived.

Draco took it the wrong way. His tone frosted over. "Am I going somewhere?"

"That's not what I meant."

A squeaky scream broke their locked stare. Both looked down to see Iece's fingers dripping over Draco's boiling tea. Before Harry could get to her, Draco dove down and placed two of her fingers into his mouth. Results were instant. Her scream fizzled to a whimper. Huge tears slid past her unhappy mouth and she quivered against him. Compared to the burn, Harry surmised, the moisture from Draco's mouth was cool and the pressure he applied absorbed the worst of her initial pain. It dulled enough to let her cry proper, her lips going shapeless and rubbery as Draco soothed her fingers.

Harry's heart hit the walls of his chest, pulling every hair on his body with it. That's what a scream of pain from Iece did to him. But Draco's actions did something else. Draco didn't even seem to be aware of Harry as he quieted Iece, stroked her hair, and finally released her hand. He withdrew his wand and stopped any burns before her skin could blister. He'd mastered basic First Aid magic during her first year of life. Harry didn't know what impressed him more, Draco's ability to soothe her, or his abrupt dropping of all qualms to do something so uncharacteristic, and uncouth, as to put her fingers into his mouth. That wasn't discipline. In fact, it struck him that Draco would've been incapable of such an act two years ago. Risking questionable hygienic etiquette and social decorum, was not his style. Yet he'd dropped his entire upbringing to use his perfect mouth in unhesitating service to her.

The sight came with certain validation. _He likes her more than he likes me. Better yet, he loves her. Thank god._

That kind of instinct couldn't be taught. It was a parent's. Fingers-to-mouth was more effective than any spell either of them could've come up with and the Draco from two years ago would simply have been too embarrassed to do it, if it even occurred to him.

The whole thing reminded Harry of their agreement. They would never lie to Iece. They would never take the lazy way out and use the excuse that her start was too much for a child to understand. They both remembered their childhood and what adults thought they were limited to. If a child can learn the concept of a family, then it can learn the concept of a different family. Yes, she had two fathers instead of one. Yes, she could call them both Daddy, but when she pointed to the mommy and daddy in her learning books, they always took the opportunity to tell her that Draco was really her brother. He simply loved her like a Daddy.

They didn't know what they were going to do when she started to piece it all together, but Harry knew the truth would win out. If he had to say, "You mean the world to me, but I need a little more time, and for you to be a little older, before I give you that information," then he would. At least, that's what he told himself.

Iece lay sniffling against Draco, who lifted her into his lap. Harry noticed that in spite of his calm, color was returning to Draco's cheeks. He looked at Harry and said nothing while stroking Iece's hair.

That was yesterday. After their visit, Harry spent his isolation going over the files and intermittently rehearsing his next lecture. It was difficult to concentrate, and part of him wondered if it wasn't too late to ask for permission to visit the crash site. It would be a show of good faith. He didn't feel like he needed permission at all. The trail of burn wreckage went on for many kilometers and could hardly be quarantined effectively. He played with the idea, knowing there was too little daylight left to take advantage of it. The more he looked over Snape's information, the more he lost himself in the mysteries there.

Blatant inconsistencies stared up at him. For starters, the photo of Snape's corps, which Draco had thoughtfully covered with a film of tissue paper so as to let Harry decide for himself if he wanted to see it, was not the way he remembered leaving it. Snape had been lifeless but relatively whole and identifiable. The photo showed an unidentifiable burn victim. Snape had been in the boathouse. This body had been recovered by the lake, ten meters from the boathouse, which had caught fire but didn't burn completely. The fire was determined to be deliberate, but there was so much deliberate destruction that night. Evidence of who torched it remained inconclusive. This body was identified using the wand holstered to it. The head, torso, and arms were reduced to char and some ash, which conflicted with the observation that the area around the body, the grass, did not suffer the same extreme temperature required to char the body. The fire was caused by an incineration spell.

Harry sat back. Well that was perfect. Surely the Ministry hadn't given up that easily. The crime scene clearly demonstrated that the body's identity was hidden. Even down to the dark mark, which had been reduced to a dusting of grey-black ashes where an arm should've been. The ashes had a purplish tint to them, which Harry blamed on less than optimum film and lighting conditions. Harry's own statements told aurors that he'd left Snape's body undisturbed and where to find it. He understood that there were hundreds of bodies to tend to, not just at Hogwarts, but all over the wizarding world that night. And that was just one horrible night. But Snape was a primary figure in Voldemort's designs. Surely any auror would dig deeper than this. The Last Letter Rite confirmed, no. Cause of death: 'Severity of burns', though there was an asterisk denoting that other factors remain inconclusive. That was the finding of the last Mediwizard to examine Snape's body.

That was never mentioned in court. Harry was certain of it. A lot had been going on, he couldn't keep up with every legal tangent, every loss, and every drama the trials unearthed, but he made sure they got his account of Snape right. Which he found on the bottom of the pile.

The records noted how 'Mr. Potter's testimony differs from the evidence found at the crime scene' and went on to conclude that, 'Resulting discrepancies are due to the window of time in which the fallen body of Severus Snape lay unguarded while the battle on the grounds of Hogwarts came to its tragic close. Aurors determined the body to have been vandalized by enemies of Snape and allowed a magical testing of the wand to stand as confirmation of the deceased. Both wand and body were 'honored by fire' in a cremation ceremony attended to by four hundred colleagues and former students wishing to pay tribute.

Harry knew about the cremation. Knew that, apparently, it was instructed in his will. It fit Snape perfectly, all except for the public display and the added flourish of care that McGonagall inserted between the cracks. No one as fastidious in his public façade as Snape, would've wanted anything left of his body hanging around to be scrutinized or defiled. The number of attendees made Harry proud, and he hoped that Snape somehow could've seen it as well.

Still, four hundred was nothing compared to the thousands Voldemort's reach affected, all while appointing Severus as his primary agent. Many more had protested outside the school, while McGonagall gave sanction to the use of the Great Hall to honor Severus. The school was still undergoing reconstruction at the time. But enormous efforts had been taken to clear the rubble and make the grounds presentable while every attempt was being made to adapt and rebuild. Assistance came from other magical schools all over the world. Durmstrang and Beauxbatons led the aid to turn Hogwarts into a functioning home for students again.

Snape had no family in attendance. When McGonagall learned the truth about his involvement with Dumbledore, she'd taken memorial expenses upon herself and allowed others to contribute if they wanted to. She confided to Harry later that she'd only paid for extra services. Snape had already paid for the basic expenses himself, having taken out a policy of foresight and consideration almost a decade ahead of time. They both knew it was more likely that Snape didn't trust anyone else to get it right.

McGonagall made sure the Hall was lined in floating candles and reverent white roses, symbolizing purification and innocence. She used her powers of persuasion to let her upgrade his coffin to the most handsome braided, dark walnut Burkes Brothers Final Restury sold. Students claimed to have seen their reflections staring back at them in the black lacquered grain. A burst of white roses sat atop, announcing Snape's cleared name to all that viewed and comprehended it. She admitted later, "He would never have allowed something so ostentatious. I'm glad he didn't have a say in the matter. For once in his unhappy life, he was not in a position to refuse beauty and affection."

Harry didn't bother correcting her. Snape's body was no longer alive, but they both knew his presence had to be alive somewhere. It had to be. All that power, all that energy, couldn't just become nothing.

When her efforts were remarked upon, she defended her actions. "Aside from Albus, I worked the closest with Professor Snape. I alone claim the authority to celebrate my friend and colleague as I see fit. If anyone wants to challenge me, they may do so to my face."

This was said loudly in a room filled with mourners, scorners, teachers, Ministry officials, reporters and students. Harry wondered if she had not been waiting for the opportunity to slap those who criticized her, with these well aimed words. He also remembered how she and Snape had cleared the Hall in a dual that had him relinquishing the castle to her. She must've regretted fighting him, now that she understood what he'd been doing. Perhaps all her efforts were her way of showing Snape that she too was sorry to have cursed his name.

For three hours, the closed coffin was as much as anyone who wanted to pay their respects, were allowed to see. Students and staff alike were permitted to step up to the front of the room and share their personal experiences and memories. Mostly, stories of being terrified of Snape, became a common theme, followed by thanking him for being so hard on them all.

"All you ever asked," read Luna Lovegood from her notes, "was that we demand uncompromising quality from ourselves. You didn't let us take the easy way out. And in the end, neither did you. Rest in enchantment, Professor Severus Prince-Snape."

Burke's staff had expertly installed their professional equipment behind an elegant false-front of grey-silver velvet curtains. Everyone saw the casket enter the cremation cubicle. No one saw the actual body or the process. As it entered in a slow, conveyer pace, and disappeared, Harry imagined Snape bitching about spending money on something as masterful as that coffin, only to burn it. Muggles would've used decorative coffin covers that were removed prior to cremation. Not the Burkes Brothers. Quality was paid for, quality was sent with the body. What a wasteful and unnecessary sentiment, Snape would've sneered. The thought made Harry smile. Unlike muggle cremations, which can take days, Burkes Brothers were wizards who had their process completed in three hours. By the time it was done, Harry was the only one still seated in the Great Hall. He'd waited on purpose, to catch McGonagall alone. There was something he'd needed to ask her.

Harry's thoughts returned him to his hotel room, where his sandwich currently felt like tasteless mush in his mouth. It wasn't that it was a bad sandwich, he'd lost his appetite after thinking of the pictures in Snape's file. That wasn't Snape's body. It couldn't have been.

By the time the sun was up, he'd made up his mind to return to the wreckage and look for any signs of the one responsible for saving all those people, including him. Not just saving him, but fully restoring him, according to Avi. No one else had gotten such thorough treatment. Hadn't Snape always, secretly, protected him?

Talk of unrecognizable bodies, the distant memory of cars vanishing into black and orange plumage that surged from the rear of the train, to its long graceful arc around the tracks, simply didn't mesh with waking up, unfazed and comfy-cozy, in a hospital bed. There was no trauma in his mind and there should've been. When he retold the story to the muggle authorities, then to the aurors, he kept forgetting that it must've all taken place in the light of day. He saw molten fire against a night sky. But Snape's reflection had been backlit by day because he had a strong sense of light and trees, not that he mentioned Snape in his statement. So everyone already knew his story had holes in it. They'd chalked it up to shock. Accident victims often recalled all kinds of things that didn't really happen.

Harry remembered the time Mr. Dursley drove Dudley and a group of his friends to the cinema. Harry had not been invited, nor did he want to be. The car was rammed by a truck speeding through a traffic light. Even though Dudley was fine, the last he saw of his friend, whom he'd given the front seat, was the sight of the entire passenger front instantly replaced by the engine of the runaway lorry. For weeks after, during his healing, Dudley would retell the horrific event, only to include Harry every single time. "Harry went through the windshield," he insisted, no matter how many times Vernon told him that Harry wasn't even in the sodding car. It took months for Dudley to work out that that was true.

Harry didn't know what to think of some internal logic of Dudley's that put him in the forefront of Dudley's concern. It would've been easy to give into the temptation that Dudley would rather have seen Harry dead instead of his friend. But later, upon parting with the Dursleys Harry realized that you can't grow up in a house with your cousin and not come out of it being brothers on some level. Even complicated, I-don't-like-you-but-I-want-you-to-be-okay, brothers. Dudley saw the person he needed to see, to keep a foothold in this world, as his friend had left it.

Maybe Harry saw Snape for the same reason. Snape was never far from his mind, like a television program playing in the background, left on and ignored mostly. He learned not to pay attention to it, since there's nothing he can do to fix the past. But when everything gets quiet inside of him, regrets concerning Snape become clear and audible in his mind. It's like the stars becoming visible when the sun goes down. They're always there in the day, easily ignored. But at night, one can't help but look up and wonder why they're there and why they're so unreachable.

It's okay if his vision of Snape in a watery reflection was just a hallucination of a brain that couldn't deal with whatever happened. But before he left it at that, he had to make sure it was simply that. Who put him and all those other people back together? That wasn't a hallucination.

After his statements to non-magical investigators, the man they were all calling Admiral Bicksby, stayed with him, in a room with four undercover aurors masquerading in muggle attire. Harry wasn't an expert on military chain of command, but he couldn't figure out why a high ranking Naval Officer, sporting impressive, gold insignias on his dark sleeves, would be the one to lead a magical investigation. He was eager to ask, but he'd been warned that sometimes there were unsuspecting muggles allowed into the room, and only those wearing a CIUM pin were officially cleared to know about the integrated worlds.

When the non-magicks, as Harry was starting to think of them, had left, everyone in the room had looked at him like he was a key stuck in a lock. It was Bicksby who pulled up the nearest chair, folded his six-five frame into it, and brought his meaty, mallets for hands, together. He was surprisingly elegant in the graceful coat, and Harry could tell that he was making an effort to meet Harry on some unspoken level of respect. How much would an undercover operative, even a high ranking one, know about his involvement in the wizarding war? He knows everything the aurors know, something answered.

"Here's the thing," Bicksby started, "We've seen your speeches. We know you can show people what's in your mind without a pensieve."

Before Harry could respond that he'd already signed over strands of his memories to the CIUM, Bicksby stopped him. "We appreciate your cooperation so far, Mr. Potter. Those strands are invaluable to the case. However, they are affected by your emotional state. There were some inaccuracies that we have to address. The only way to do that effectively, is to ask you to perform the charm that you use to show an audience what you clearly remember. We want to compare the information. The men and women present, will each attempt to record what you project from four different wands, four different magical viewpoints. It will all be analyzed to determine what really happened in that last minute on the train."

All concerns about Bicksby's background fell away. They were basically telling him his memories were worthless? "It's the daylight thing, isn't it?"

The Admiral nodded.

Harry felt his frustration rise, but took hold of his decision to get these people out of his face. He couldn't argue with them. The images spoke for themselves. He took out the replacement wand Draco had given him, letting it draw a line from pocket to temple to the space in front of him, in one quick motion. The Admiral smiled, and Harry sensed that he was impressed. That also told him that the man was not as accustomed to wizards as his authority conveyed. Or he didn't see magic every day.

With unclear edges, the image of the train burst into activity between Harry and the aurors. It was a view from the inside of the cabin, looking out onto the back end of the train as it rounded a trestle. Weak memories, without being anchored to time-space, flicker and leap in an effort to hold together against infinite potential of ideas and thoughts. But strong memories hold together from sheer emotion. They cannot be considered the truth for that reason, but they are considered the truth of the person they belong to, and are made valid in that test.

In Harry's truth, the sky was dark and glowed horrifically as fire chased each car like dominoes, in a matter of seconds. He let them see that his mind wasn't going to give him anything more than what he'd already given them. He couldn't make it daylight in the memory if he wanted to, yet they had proof that it was before noon when the first reports of the wreckage were phoned in.

"Back up," the Admiral said. "What were you doing ten minutes before the first explosion?"

Harry tried not to falter. He knew that was tricky. The night, filled with boiling hell, shifted into a brighter, white-grey sky. It lit up the inside of the cabin and the seats. Faux paneling was once again whole and recognizable against plaid upholstery. He had no emotional attachments to these things, so they faded and competed with what had mattered to him the most in those moments. Draco's body pinned against a tree, Avi's instructions, and not wanting anyone to see what he was doing with them. His uneasiness contaminated the memories, dimming their clarity. Fuck it. He decided to let his anxieties dump all the useless content it wanted into the mix. Suddenly, there was no train. There was only Draco beneath him and Harry's wand pointed at Draco's throat. Harry heard the harsh words he and Draco were snarling at each other, even if the aurors couldn't. Fear of his daughter waking up to their fighting, had his mind inserting chaotic images of Iece screaming and crying. With a jerk of his wand, Harry shut off the runaway memories.

He didn't have to look at the people in the room to feel their quizzical expressions upon him.

"I guess I can't get it to work. Or, it does but there's nothing coherent. I was pretty sleepy on the train. I wasn't paying attention to anything but random thoughts, and that's exactly what you see."

The Admiral nodded quietly. Instead of being nonplussed, his tone was patient. "That makes sense. If you'd known anything about the explosion, your thoughts would've gone there. You were thinking of family, as you well should."

Harry suddenly saw the white-haired man in a different light. Admiral Bicksby had removed his hat and patches of pink scalp showed through the strands of his comb over. Harry saw a liver spot when he bowed his head, putting a hand up to his jaw to reflect for a second. He suddenly looked much older and Harry got impressions of lots of sun, a private beach, grandchildren, and a strong desire to retire. The Admiral's weariness washed over Harry. Like two strangers accidentally brushing hands, both sat straight suddenly, in an effort to shake off the connection.

"One more thing. You stated that you believe you were barely conscious at some point. You landed in water. Can you show us the absolute last impression that you can recall of that moment?"

Harry tensed. That detail had come out of his mouth when he'd had no idea it how important it was. Now that he knew where it could lead, he wished he'd never told them that part. Keeping all of this from his face, he threw the memory out into the air. Predictably, it blurred around the edges more than usual. It was like looking at a bit of sunlight on black water. It emerged through lenses that couldn't focus, giving the impression of light too bright to fully open one's eyes upon. The only movement was a watery wobble as liquid reflections teased into familiar shapes, but never committed to sharp detail. Instantly, it went black. Not because Harry cut it short, but because blackness had descended.

The abrupt cut off looked unnatural. Looked, in fact, like a spell. Consciousness never ended that sharply. It receded. It faded. It let go. Harry was smart enough not to comment on the clue. The others looked at one another, as if speaking with their eyes.

Bicksby clapped his hands together. "That answers our question. Mr. Potter, it's regrettable that we meet under these circumstances, but I am still delighted to have met you."

Harry accepted the handshake offered to him.

"Hopefully, we can let you get on with your plans. You'll be briefed on arrangements concerning necessary surveillance, but you're free to carry on with the tour."

 

***

Harry had to see the wreckage for himself. News footage wasn't enough. He wasn't sure how much help he would get, but he found no objections when he asked the Minister to get him on to the site. The CIUM Admiral even got the message he'd left with the hotel clerk, and hooked Harry up with an off-duty rescue worker, who drove him to the shrapnel that littered four kilometers and stretched onward.

The white-haired gentleman, wearing a caution-yellow jumpsuit beneath a thick fleece jacket that bore a Fire Warden logo, still had a young man's vigor to his face and a strong jaw bristling with red-gray stubble. He looked Harry up and down. His smile, subtle above his dimpled chin, was Harry's only indication that the man didn't have a problem with being asked to drive him.

Introduced as Jake, he narrowed his eyes at Harry. "You going back there? Son, you walked away. What's got you wanting to go back to the mouth of hell?"

Harry returned an uneasy smile. He had to remember that this man was a muggle, and not necessarily in the know about wizards. He wasn't wearing the CIUM insignia anywhere, but that didn't mean anything. There was no way to know how much Jake knew or didn't know.

Harry's words were rehearsed, but the anxiousness was genuine and bothersome. "I want to see what I survived. A lot of people didn't. Maybe it'll help me let it go."

Whether the guy bought it or not, he nodded, and head-pointed to his truck. "All right. We don't normally let accident victims back onto a site that's still being combed for evidence, but the bureaucrats are making an exception for you, for some reason. Let's go."

Harry followed, not sure if he should feel guilty for receiving special treatment or not. He told himself, it was because he might be able to shed more light into the investigation. It wasn't as if he was being pampered or anything.

The stink of overheated steel and melted rubber met them kilometers before they arrived at the wreckage. The train had been an older model, and bits of chassis and locomotive guts, were spotted across an expanse of wide open landscape leading to the sight. Five days after the explosion, Harry excused the lack of clean up, on muggles focussing on the investigation. You don't want to clean up a crime scene too soon, he defended them. It's not like they had magic. And even though dozens of rescue professionals and crash experts had been brought in from other parts of the country, the local crews seemed overwhelmed and stymied as to the best tactic for recovering all the evidence over a wide area.

Harry had overheard Admiral Bicksby telling one of the other wizards, "Just when they think they've mapped the site, someone calls in more bits much further away. It's starting to look like magic was involved rather than non-magical explosives."

He was supposed to be rehearsing his lecture in front of a mirror. At least, that's how his speaking coach preferred it. "You're speaking at a professional level now. This isn't a quidditch huddle. Every stranger in your audience needs reassurance that you're leading confidently to worthwhile information, and that you can handle yourself, or they won't want to invest their attention."

Harry hardly had that problem anymore. Notes had worked in the beginning, but his comfort level went up a notch when he turned his back on the mirror, ditched the notes, and just said what he had to say. He started with a plan, but liked the room and space to take his discussion any direction he wanted, especially when he gauged what the audience was most interested in. When new audiences put away the fore knowledge of his reputation, and saw a regular-looking guy answering questions, stumbling through a sincere desire to tell them everything he could, mixed with sporadic bursts of exactitude and magic, it often delighted and surprised him as well them.

He couldn't always wing it. He ran through a strategic list of topics in his mind and aimed them at what was relevant to the audience. After he perfunctorily introduced himself, knowing it was bad form to assume everyone always knew who he was, and told why he was there, he went by the audience's questions to determine the kind of information they wanted to hear. Invariably, he got requests to show specific details, or the "the movie" version of some aspect of school, or the war, and that's when newcomers in the audience typically warmed up to him.

But that morning, he couldn't concentrate on rehearsing. He had to be in Edinburgh tomorrow. If he could, he wanted it early enough to use the quidditch field to run through some solo maneuvers he'd worked out, before hooking up with his other team members. Like everything in the wizarding world, the field was hidden from muggle eyes and camouflaged to look like a landfill.

Almost a week of immobility had made him stiff and he wanted to work out as much as possible before going before his team. That left him only one day to find his way back to the spot where they'd found his body. He had to see the area for himself. It might hold some clue about Snape.

At the wreckage, he saw what he expected to see, plus a bit more. In the most concentrated areas he saw hunks of wheels and axles stuck out of the ground, as if a giant had thrown them like a discus. Cabin framework leaned in collapsed joints, like skeletal remains, still smoking in some cases. Partial sheets of crumpled black panels, must've been what was left of cabin walls. Under his feet, bits of chassis made walking among the debris unsteady, and it bothered him to feel evidence being pressed into the soft ground. Areas to be avoided, and a path to stay on, had been spray painted on the grass and even on the wreckage itself, but there were unidentifiable shrapnel sticking up out of the ground everywhere. Harry was not allowed to wander off by himself. Jake had given him special covers for his shoes, a disposable safety jumpsuit, and helmet, and told to say out of the way and not to touch anything. "You can have a look, but it's my ass if I let you get hurt."

He didn't know much about trains, having only a twelve year-old's research on the Hogwart's Express, at a time when that discovery had overjoyed him, to recall from his memory. He knew enough from seeing the underbelly of disconnected, twisting frames that stank of burned wiring, that the train was a diesel-electric, 201 class, running since 1981.

The most dangerous areas, called "hot zones," are taped off and he's not allowed near them. Frustration pressurized in his chest. He asked Jake, "Can you show me where my…" He almost said 'my body' but changes it. "Where me and the other survivors were found?"

Jake's jaw hardens, but he doesn't seem to hold any judgements or questions behind his eyes. "This way. Try to place your feet directly into my prints."

He led Harry past mangled bits of track melted into tangled girders belonging to the trestle that supported them. Grotesque bends and points reconstructed out of the blast make him cringe. It made him think of the bodies he wasn't seeing, and what it must've done to them.

Jake stops and says, "This is it."

He points to the most intact car Harry has seen so far. It still has two sides and the bottom mainframe is completely gone, allowing them to see clear inside to the hollowed out black char, where not one plastic seat remained attached. It was gutted by the fire.

"They were all laid out, almost assembly line style. Whoever did it, was in a hurry. Thirty-one people did not come out of this car. We got to 'em because this one is the most that's left. Helicopter saw it first. We cleared them out. Then, the next day, we find you. Just lying in plain sight, like we overlooked you." He shook his head. "Ain't true. You came out of nowhere. Maybe you crawled, I don't know. Land this open, you could've been covered by something. But you were too clean, too healthy. Your clothes looked like they'd been through it, but your skin didn't. A little dirt, a little blood, nothing like those poor buggers we found before you. People don't realize, force that violent tears the clothes right off of you. It ruptures the guts even if it don't tear you apart."

Harry looked at the spot, wanting to stop Jake from talking, but needing the information at the same time. He dreaded what he thought Jake was getting at. If his survival was suspicious, then maybe he had something to do with the attack. That is what one might think. The man everyone was calling Admiral Banks, had already squelched it. "We know you didn't come out of that war, just to start blowing up innocent people, Mr. Potter. You are not a suspect, but we will need to keep an eye on you."

The spot where Jake had pointed, was just crushed heather growing over soft black soil. Spray paint and tiny flags marked the layout of removed bodies. Harry looked up and all around, seeing that the ground was pretty uniform around him. Under a dull sky, the flats concealed nothing. Wreckage could be seen all around him, extending on the horizon behind him like grey smears, dotted with cranes and crew workers.

Something wasn't right. "Are you absolutely sure this is where they found me?"

Jake's expression opened into delighted surprise. His mouth revealed humorous reflection. "I found you. And yes, I'm sure."  
His polite patience warned Harry not to question it again.

Harry nodded, trying to be gracious about it. But he still shook his head to himself. He remembered trees and water, and Snape's reflection. That is, he didn't literally remember seeing them, but he sensed them. It had something to do with the water. He knew he'd been stuck in some sort of shallow pool. It still rippled in his mind as Snape's face grew close. Even distorted by liquid movement, that face had shone and shifted.

"Was it raining when you found me, or had it?" The spot didn't look like it could've been even an inch under water within the last few days, but he had to ask. It might've been possible for a downpour to collect in this spot before sinking into the ground. But that meant mud. He should've been able to see a muddy imprint of his body, right?"

"Son, this spot was as dry as it is now. You're one lucky young man. You ain't gonna understand a miracle. That's why we call 'em that. Let it go."

Harry looked at him. "Then you don't believe someone helped me and the others before you got to me?"

"Oh, I believe it. I know it. That's not the miracle. The miracle, is that there was anything left of you to help."

Harry decided to accept the kindness shown to him without another word. He'd come, he'd seen. He thanked Jake, made a point of walking around the car and memorizing as many details as he could, then agreed that he was ready to go.

Back at the hotel, he asked about maps and made arrangements for a rental vehicle. Not a car, a jeep. He needed something that could take him off road and get him back. Also, he took out his muggle phone and began comparing the maps there. He didn't usually rely on the internet, having grown up without it, but it did prove very useful in the non-magic world. Draco assured him that the phone was indispensable for muggles and he'd be considered strange if he didn't at least have it on him. Besides, they'd need normal phone numbers and decoy backgrounds for renting and leasing.

The phone was especially useful for ordering takeout and getting directions. As he sat in his room, not rehearsing for his lecture in three days, not thinking about the second quidditch practice he couldn't miss with his American teammates tomorrow, he studied the routes around the train wreckage and plotted the areas that looked dense with vegetation. Satellite views helped. The landscape's deforestation left few trees in sight, but he understood that that only narrowed the clues for him.

He still had the protective gear given to him, having stuffed it in his jacket instead of leaving it in Jake's vehicle. It would help him blend in and hopefully go unquestioned at the wreckage. In the morning, as soon as the car arrived, he'd go find the real site where his body landed. He wasn't waiting on anyone's permission.

He and Draco learned to drive by letting the Ministry arrange proper muggle lessons for them through non-magical courses offered. Courses were required for some certifications, but also used as correctional discipline for offenses against muggles. The lessons calmed Draco's objections to dangerous vehicles in general and bolstered their confidence to move around in a non-magic world. The freedom to come and go, in a crowd of unsuspecting people, proved indispensable. The jeep was waiting on him downstairs two hours after sunrise the next day, much later than he'd asked for it, but he struggled to maintain a grateful stance as he accepted keys from the rental clerk. He didn't have two hours to lose. As it was, he had the opening ceremonies to attend, a speech he wasn’t truly prepared for, and quidditch practice he couldn't miss twice in a row, all weighing on him to get onto the moors and find whatever the hell he was looking for. He checked out, knowing he wouldn't be coming back to do it later.

His maps showed him how to get around the blocked off roads adjacent to the wreckage. Things only got fuzzy when he could no longer see the flashing lights of work crews and signs signaling cars to detour. He'd even lost sight of the giant, hydraulic cranes that were shipped in and assembled on spot to deal with the wreck. He had a full tank of gas and the wind tearing at his hair and jacket. He was prepared to get lost, he didn't have a problem with learning new roads. A certain level of anxiety was normal, he assured himself. So hurry up and learn, goddammit!

It was when the roads disappeared, that he had to insist his instincts were right. Look for anything resembling a tree, he told himself. Deforestation should've cinched that, but the more he drove, the more he realized it also made things feel hopeless. It occurred to him that he was never going to find anything driving on paved roads. He had to dare to keep along the train's path, even when that meant turning around and backtracking because he couldn't cross a trestle or a grassy bog just waiting to suck his tires into immobility. He was alone out here, and maybe a little reckless for being so. He knew, if he got the jeep stuck, his magic could get him out of a bind. But he really didn't have time for foolish results like that. How hard was it to find a tree in a place where those were few? They'll stand out, he insisted. You'll never see them, another part of him argued.

He ignored the first hunger pangs in his stomach. For minutes at a time, he was able to push away his fears and appreciate vibrant plains stretching from one side of the horizon to the other. He didn't bother with distant villages, but admired the way light scattered across farmland and clusters of communities with preserved old churches. He saw a man on a bicycle and two women with strollers, who politely ignored him from their conversation in front of a low stone wall, which went on for miles. At one point, the road took him through what appeared to be an abandoned town, complete with boarded up factories and disintegrating storefronts. He wondered briefly about the area's history, caught sight of distant tracks, and turned in their direction.

In the back of his mind, he remembered the Admiral had mentioned keeping a watch on him, but would make every attempt to respect his privacy. He also knew that was bullshit. Whether the jeep was being tracked or not, privacy was no longer an option. If they questioned his desire to find more wreckage, he'd tell them the truth. Plenty of people already knew that his body was put where it was found. He wanted the truth just as much as everyone else did. He never had to mention anything else about his suspicions.

When it became apparent that he was way out of range from the explosion, he admitted defeat and turned around. Any obvious wreckage, would've already been spotted and reported by now. All he could do was drive the distance between train depots and look for vegetation. After that, he'd give up. He promised.

The temptation to come back as soon as he could, and hike on foot for a few days, itched at him. When would he have that much time? The fuel gauge on the dash, told him it didn't matter. He needed to get gas. It wasn't mandatory, before dropping the jeep off, but it was the decent thing to do. He was slightly nauseated from driving for hours on an empty stomach, and grabbed some crisps and a candy bar while he was at it. He took time to eat them on the side of the road once he'd driven from the pump. What he was really doing, he admitted, was stalling.

There were only a few more hours of useful daylight left and it killed him to let this opportunity slip away. The thought of apparating to Ministry-sponsored lodgings in Edinburgh, then attempting to use the hidden facility for practice, just to brush up before meeting his team members, made him bristle. If he didn't sleep, he could end up behaving like a real tit in front of them. His judgement might suffer. On his broom, snap decisions were based on instinct and strategy, not careful reflection. He would not be forgiven if they found his skill unequal to the stories. He knew it was bullocks to worry about it, that no one could measure up to unrealistic stories. But he was still pretty good and he wanted them to see that he was good enough to fly with them. The famous Harry Potter missing their maiden practice would've been a serious strike against him, and fodder for nasty gossip, had it not been for the tragedy that affected others. Dead passengers were the proof that he hadn't been able to help his tardiness and wasn't behaving like an exceptioned Prima Donna on purpose.

God, he knew he was being too defensive about what people thought of him. How much of his life did it really control. Always reacting and an reacting. Often, he wished he could be more concealing of his emotions, like Draco. Then he remembered where Draco had learned it, and told himself it was okay to be who he was.

An idea occurred to him, just as his tongue crushed a crisp against the roof of his mouth. He swallowed against the salt, closed the bag, and started driving. He looked for a spot free of people, and ended up driving onto grass until the road was barely a vague line behind him. Making sure he was alone, he pulled out his wand and took a second to think about what he was going to do.

Snape's patronis had led him to the Sword of Gryffindor, on the bottom of the lake. A patronis represented the very essence of his magic and his consciousness. Quickly, he cast a barrier around the jeep, in a diameter wide enough to give his patronis adequate room. Then he summoned it forth. His magic arched from his wand to just a few meters in front of the vehicle. He was careful not to use its full strength. He wanted to keep the stag barely visible against magical people and non-magic alike. If they saw a light or a flicker in the distance, that they couldn't understand, it would be gone in the next second, moving toward Harry's intention and away from prying eyes.

A warning in his heart told him not to do it. He was being tracked and there would be repercussions. With no one there to witness them, his green eyes flashed angrily. He spoke out loud to the stag bounding in front of him. It held still for a moment, as if it wasn't a direct part of him and needed to hear his words. Harry himself needed to hear his exact intent. It wasn't clear until he said it out loud.

"You come from me. You know what I know. You know what I saw, and where I saw it. Take me there. Show me." He stalled. The request felt incomplete. "Take me to where my body really landed in the wreckage."

The stag was off, and Harry's mouth hung open as he put the jeep into gear and hurried after it. No admonishments, no judgements, just leaping certainty. Four-legged strides didn't take the road, they shot over the ground in the direction towards the hotel. It was like following a streak of light. The full form of the magical creature moved too fast to be seen with any accuracy. Harry had to drive carefully, swerving areas that looked too soft and damp for grass to grow. Perhaps the jeep was made for it, but his driving skills were not. Any time he lost sight of the animal, he had only to be patient before it appeared again. It was him, it knew when he needed to see which way to turn.

Twenty minutes later, Harry stopped at the edge of a sharp embankment. Grass sloped downward into a steep incline. Before him, water collected in marshy pools some distance ahead. Glad he was wearing the rescue boots, he turned the jeep off, secured his wand, and leapt down into the mud. His feet sunk with each step. Excitement turned his stomach as he noticed the area taking on the first stirrings of evening fog. He tried not to think about the time as his stag glistened, pulsing on and off like a beacon ahead of him. He followed, loosing sight of the jeep. Everywhere around him, grass grew out of tiny shallow lakes that reflected dingy clouds from above. Still no trees, but it was then that he realized he would never see any trees. Not here. What he would see, what was staring him in the face, were small, spindly shrub-like plants that dripped spars amounts of dark leaves from thin, wine-colored stems. If he were laying on the ground, in a semi-conscious state, he might mistake them for trees.

Ahead, the stag had stopped. It waited on him. With his stomach collapsed in on itself, he sloshed his way to the creature. As he approached, it faded. Its job was done.

On the ground, large pieces of the train's paneling lay at an angle in the water. Above a six-inch level, the panel was reduced to wet char. But below the surface, what Harry could only guess to be rigid plexiglas, shone melted but bright with manufactured finishing, before being covered by settling mud. The window was gone, but the frame appeared to slice deep into the ground. That spoke of the impact. It spoke of the force. It spoke of a bleak chance of survival. Other debris surfaced around him, but the stag had stopped exactly in this spot. He knew there was no point in moving from it. Acid gurgled against the walls of his stomach and his gut locked. He sighed, realizing he'd forgotten his safety gloves back at the jeep. But also realizing that he was watching himself and listening to that sigh, and feeling his eyes grow hot with moisture. Some part of him was reacting to what it already knew, but hadn't yet seen.

Just lift it, his instinct whispered. Don't use your wand. It's light enough to lift.

He grabbed hold of the charred metal. It was cold, but left a grimy black-purple film against his skin. Mud refused to release the suction it had on it, so Harry ended up pushing the bent piece further into the bog instead of pulling it out. He disturbed the mud good enough that pieces of hard foam and metal bracing tumbled from beneath the panel and spilled into the water. This revealed a hole, as the panel had collapsed on top of a partial cabin. Harry got down on his knees, ignoring the water creeping into the suit, and peered through the hole. He couldn't make sense of the black entanglements within. Not even when he pulled out his wand and used it to see inside. From what he could tell, there were no bodies wedged in there, just bits of burned insulation, wires, and twisted metal. Every surface glistened thickly with dark ash residue. He rubbed it between his fingers. Sticky. It smelled like fermenting turnips. That's the only association he could make.

He reached further into the opening, feeling for any bit of surviving evidence. He had to lay flat enough to extend his whole arm, wetting his body up to his chest. His hand felt for anything that could come loose and wasn't either ash or fused into solidity with other objects. Finally, something hard let go of its hold. He pulled his hand out, expecting to have in it, some shrunken hunk of cinder. Under fading daylight, he squinted. The thing was about five inches long. It looked like shriveled, black wood at both ends, but bubbled into hard plastic lumps in the middle. He couldn't tell if stink was coming from it or the bog, or all the wreckage. No telling what was decomposing in the water. As he stared at the object, his fingers tracing its melted surface, it turned on.

That is, it lit from the inside. A dot of red light illuminated the melted plastic. All of a sudden, without forcing the lid open, he knew what he was holding. His stomach knew what he'd found and it caused him to drop the object into the water. Through muddy sediment, the light glowed at him. Before the explosions, the last message his magic alerted to Draco, through his watch, had been alarm. Help. I'm in trouble. Mindless, frozen alarm. So there was his watch. And there was, what was left of his arm, still inside of it.

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A/N:  Please review :-)

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Note:  Nothing about this is intended to be canon. Not even the timeline. Thanks!


	7. A Passenger

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What Harry and Ash have in common.

**6 Days Earlier**

 

There was something in the way Foster regarded the body of the boy. His silence, his bent head, the tight line above his compressed lips, told Ash that his questions could wait. Even though Foster stood very still, having halted his actions for a moment, it was the most expression Ash had yet to see him reveal.

Foster's shoulders slanted in their dark layers, imitating the slant of his mouth. His hair fell forward, as it always did when he lowered his guard. After two years, Ash could finally read something of the lost scripture that translated Foster into this world. Ash still got things wrong. He still screwed up, destroying months of progress by assuming more familiarity than Foster granted him. But the hair was his. Foster didn't care about it, so it was left unguarded and Ash could tell that its fall forward, was all the sadness Foster would let him see as he stood braced over the body on the table.

Mud and black smears covered Foster's clothing. Drying blood crusted his face and hands. A film of dirt speckled his livid complexion, and clean streaks traced through these as if his skin bore the imprint of multiple environments and conditions, all spaced seconds apart. His clothes were wet and looked heavy on his body. The coat was gone, and Ash saw that it had been removed to wrap and carry the body. It now lay beneath the boy.

Ash knew to keep quiet. They were in his basement, where he saw his patients. One minute, he was watching the news, trying to come up with the weekly dinner list his housekeeper, Reuse, required. The next, floorboards shook beneath him, vibrating as heavy equipment scraped across his basement and something moved around down there, knocking into tables and cabinets. He heard his steel trays crash to the floor and stacks of hanging files clattered from their shelves. Glass broke. He heard a mess, and he knew immediately that it couldn't be an animal. No raccoon, small enough to find its way inside, could be responsible for that much explosive energy and commotion. And no intruder was stupid enough to ransack his home in broad daylight with his vehicle sitting right out front. That meant he had a very special visitor.

Just in case, he removed one of his walking sticks from its corner and took the stairs off the kitchen down cautiously. The basement had been remodeled several years ago for his practice. It was 1100 square feet arranged into two separate living compartments. On one end of the house, where there were no windows, his office could be accessed by clients from the outside. On the opposite, a one-bedroom dwelling was rented to his housekeeper. He had intended to use the extra space for storage, but she agreed to take on his cooking if he let her move in. She wasn't a great cook, but neither was he. More often than not, she fixed him up with a plate from her mother's and spent her time secluded with books or making odd costumes for her online business.

He knew it couldn't be her. She was on an errand, her car was still gone. And her bony, one hundred-twenty pounds couldn't so much as jar a floorboard if she jumped up and down on it. She was a sedentary kind of homebody, who he doubted could make that much racket if her life depended on it.

Ash came down behind Foster, taking in the body on the table. When it came into view from the top of the stairs, he paused long enough to blink and assure himself that this was happening. Foster's presence whispered more to his sense of adventure than his concern as a doctor. But those were just the first few seconds. As Ash got closer, he saw the injuries and had to take the situation seriously.

"What's going on? Who's that?"

Without looking at him, Foster spoke. It sounded like he was speaking through a dense clog in the back of his throat. "No one. A passenger."

"Okay…"

Ash saw words moving below Foster's expression, words that could not break the restraint of his flexing jaw muscles. Foster kept his real answers submerged. Whatever he wanted to say, his lips clamped tight against a throat that still shaped what it wanted to really say. Recuperative breathing betrayed his stillness. His face cracked into division, split by a fissure of worry that started between his brows and dominated all other characteristics. Without opening his mouth, he showed that his thoughts tasted ruinous and sour, like vomit. He would not let them out.

Ash got no real answers from him and started looking the stranger over for himself. It was second-nature to grab his stethoscope even as he felt for a pulse. His body twisted to do both. His mind leapt to calculations of morphine and antiseptics stored in lower shelves. That's when he saw the missing arm. That's when he looked up at Foster again, then back to the body. This time he noticed that the boy's hair only went so far behind his head, before ending in a mangle of blackened skin and bone. The back of his head was burned down to his skull. The body lay face-up, revealing structural damage to the face, more severe burns, and a crushed humerus, amputated at the elbow. That was just the damage that Ash saw right away. It was enough. He stopped feeling for a pulse.

That's when he understood. Foster was mourning.

Missing skin disfigured half the person's face. He glimpsed two ribs protruding from the right side before Foster covered them. Ash reminded himself that Foster never asked anything of him, not even when Ash wanted him to. The fact that he had barged into Ash's home unannounced, carrying this kid, and seeking medical resources, could be waved away. Ash wanted to help, but suspected the thing to do was to stay out of his way. Let him have the room. Keep quiet and be grateful that Foster was too absorbed in the boy to object to his presence. Yes, it was Ash's home. But his resources were Foster's resources. Whatever happened, Ash counted on Foster to remember that.

The boy lay on Ash's medical table. He wasn't really a boy. His physiology, what was left of it, told Ash that he was between the ages of eighteen and twenty-five. But the way Foster stood over him, hovering with shadows flickering across fixed displeasure, delegated the unconscious youth to a much younger status. Foster had concealed the boy's semi nakedness with one of the sheets that Ash kept sealed in plastic bags, in the shelves below the table. They were kept, not merely clean, but sterile, on the off chance Ash would need to perform surgery in his basement. Reuse changed them regularly, though they'd seen no use in over a year. Not since he'd had to reattach a neighbor's severed tendon.

Now a sheet hid most of the trauma that Ash could see. At that time, he hadn't known about the train explosion. He guessed that the shredded clothing, the burns, and the missing limb, were the result of a car accident involving reckless speeds. He'd certainly seen that too many times in his career.

Foster's thick speech took him by surprise. "The shield wasn't stable. He was thrown from it."

Ash waited. These nuggets of information, whether he knew how to apply them to Foster's life or not, were valuable glimpses. If he gained enough of them, he might be able to piece something of Foster's reality together. He didn't know if the other was speaking to him or simply out loud. Foster's eyes never left the boy.

"I had to save him." A thread of hair-thin instability lined Foster's voice with coppery grading. It took Ash a moment to realize that this was his attempt at an explanation. "I left those still alive, where they'd receive help, but I had to save him. The fire was too great. I couldn't free all the bodies. There were too many. Too many injuries. My magic…gave out. I brought him here."

Before Ash could stop himself, he answered in an equally reverent tone, "You did the right thing."

He wasn't at all certain that bringing a corpse from a crash site to his home, was the right thing. But if Foster needed supportive words, he would give them. This was a side of Foster, he hadn't seen until now. He didn't know what was going on, but very fact that this man was speaking from, what looked like a state of shock, had Ash waiting to see what would come next.

He realized later that Foster was the first to arrive at the wreckage. Ash himself received a message hours later, that the nearest hospital, Mayo University, was asking for his assistance in transporting survivors. He discovered the calls as footage of the train unfolded on the news. By then, he believed Foster. He knew he could take his time. He had no doubt that Foster had saved as many people that could be saved.

Ash dared to step closer to the table. Foster's pupils sharpened, turning on him. Ash stopped. Thinking quickly, he asked, "How can I help?"

Foster's mouth went hard, then dour. "You can't." He began unbuttoning and removing his outermost shirt. "He needs my marrow."

Ash blinked, unsure how to respond to that. Foster leveled his true meaning at him. "Let me work, undisturbed."

It was on the tip of Ash's tongue to insist, "Let me watch," but he knew those were too many words, and too intrusive at the moment. He stepped back. His eyes fixed on the sight of Foster slipping free of his layers. He removed his vest, revealing a high collared shirt that had once been stark white, but was now soaked through with watery looking blood.

Ash struggled not to suggest driving the boy to the hospital, or calling the authorities, sensing the futility of it on so many levels. By the time Foster pulled out of his sleeves, revealing more bare skin than Ash expected to see, he didn't care about the boy on the table. That kid was as good as dead. If Foster needed to think that he could save him, then Ash would let it play out.

Ash had seen Foster's body before. But a man in purpose and motion, was very different from one lying still and medicated. Foster handled his body the way he handled his business, brusque and efficient. In motion, his bare skin conformed to taut flexibility that boasted of a mature man's torso and midriff. The subcutaneous layer between muscle and skin filled out soft places down his arms and stomach, disappearing into his trousers. His upper arms and chest held an appealing roundness to them, but looked dense with underlying hardness. Ash memorized the details and said nothing as he watch Foster produce his wand.

 

Respiratory distress, secured airways, pleurodesis, and cardiac monitoring, were terms that died in Ash's throat as he diagnosed what he saw, out of habit. Those terms were useless to Foster, and useless to the young man, even were he lying in a state-of-the-art facility. Beneath fevered raw tissue, which Ash's instincts wanted to submerge in cooling therapy, the peculiar grey of hypostasis could be seen on the forearm and lower torso where there were no burns. The boy's heart wasn't pumping.

He's dead.

He's on the cusp.

The skull is burned. The brain does not survive those temperatures or the shock.

Only a spot. The burns are not consistent. He could come back.

Ash tried to mind his own business. He tried to insist that the boy was already dead. All the evidence pointed to that and he was going to give Foster all the time he needed to realize it. But Foster stood there with his bare skin and his stick, and it just felt like some sort of grief hysteria. Truth be told, it felt like a ritual and it riled the scientist in Ash, who'd taken an oath. It pissed him off that Foster's friendship was so important to him, he'd risk doing nothing as this young man's life slipped away.

Even if the boy is dead, are you going to let him go without trying? Just to stay out Foster's way? What kind of a doctor are you?

That did it. Ash couldn't wait to see what Foster was doing. He sprang into action, woefully aware that he wasn't staffed or stocked to treat this level of trauma. He had no chest kits, but he knew he could puncture through the boy's ribs and attempt to drain the blood that was pressurizing his lungs. He'd just have to use a catheter to keep it open. That wouldn't guarantee his breathing, but it was the place to start. He went for the morphine. His body jerked in split-decision, insisting he scrub himself as well as prepare an antiseptic field. He blurted to Foster, "I don't suppose you know CPR?"

Foster's eyes cut to him briefly, but returned to the young man as if he hadn't heard Ash. Ash cursed, splashing from a side bathroom and slipping on water as he hastily tore open a disposable syringe. He blamed Foster's theatrics for making him crazy and steadied his hands over his sterilized instruments.

He was about to ask Foster to cover himself in one of the paper masks and gowns laying in packets, in a drawer, when the lights went dim. At first they flickered, before casting the room in shadows. A refrigerated medical cabinet and submerged lighting beneath the shelves, were the only illumination for a moment. The cabinet's timer went out, leaving even less light, and Ash exploded with a stream of profanity.

Foster never looked up. His gaze went to his wand and what he instructed it to do.

Ash didn't know why his backup power wasn't kicking in. He stomped off in search of the electric box and skidded when his foot went sliding with one of the trays Foster had knocked to the floor earlier. He landed on his back, with Foster and the boy behind him. It was as fast as a grease fall, so violent and surprising that it knocked the breath out of him. He felt his body spin without opening his eyes. In the absence of all control, he told himself that he was not meant to save that boy. Something just didn't want him to even try. The fall jarred him so hard, he waited for signs of pain before opening his eyes. He was too old to be falling like that. Instead of jumping up, which he could've, he decided to play it safe and rolled over, looking up in the dark at Foster.

The first thing he noticed, was concentration illuminating Forster's face. It was dark, and yet there was light. He squinted. He tried to focus on little movements all around him. The dark was moving. There were little streaks, like flashing needles, racing through the dark. They lit up, intermittently, creating razor streaks that burned bright for one split second, then dark again. They moved all around him. Ash looked down at his arms and hands and saw the tiny fractions of lit threads, disappear through his skin and appear out again, as they moved to Foster.

They were real because they cast shadows on the floor. Their shadows made a crawling, microbial pattern, similar to the shadows cast by heat waves. Even the shadows moved towards Foster. As he watched the pattern, he saw that floor was different around the table where Foster held his wand. A line of glowing tiles marked the diameter around the table. If Ash had to come up with an explanation for what he was seeing, it was that somehow, Foster was pulling all the electromagnetic energy from the air and directing it into his wand. He was creating his own light source.

But that didn't explain everything going on, if it explained anything. And Ash needed explanations desperately. Especially when he saw Foster use his wand tip to open an incision into the arm he held over the boy. Ash felt pressure build in the room. His ears popped as he steadied himself to his feet, reaching towards the table to stop Foster. They were separated by only a few feet, yet Ash felt he was reaching across an invisible field of air so dense, it was almost impenetrable. Objects could've stayed afloat in it, like fruit suspended in Jell-O. He didn't understand any of it.

As he watched, his ears filled with deafening silence. Air density cut him off from the auditory world. Foster calmly allowed his blood to pour the length of the boy's body. His lips spoke words that Ash couldn't hear. Under normal circumstances, the force Ash used to lunge his body, would've propelled him across the table, tackling Foster to bring an end to his reckless behavior. But in the dense field, his strain got him as far as the tiles, which were one color inside Foster's circle of illumination, and another in the darkness outside of it. Ash crashed in slow motion, through the silent, invisible barrier that Foster had drawn.

When he did, he found he could hear and move normally again. He had to pick himself up off the floor. Before he could question the sound of chimes he heard, he looked up to see that Foster was no longer without his shirt. He was covered in a dark garment that ran the length of him, patterned in gold threads that caught and reflected light back from its pitch folds. His hair was longer and his sleeve exposed a searingly pale arm, now gaping as he gently rolled the bone inside of it. Ash saw it move. The incision, from the top of his triceps all the way to his wrist joint, widened itself to accommodate the room needed to roll the head of his humerus free from its socket. Ligaments and veins appeared to let go of it freely.

Ash was so absorbed by the sight, he forgot to notice the state of things around him. His medical room was gone. Instead of tiles, the floor lay awashed in black, watery movement under his feet. Tones vibrated from beaten discs of metal ringing in soft harmonics. They hung on pendulous stalks above his head. Their source disappeared into stars. Walls were replaced by Vaulted arches that led to paths carpeted with light and shadow. One minute, an antique couch, luxuriously upholstered in something resembling black satin, appeared next to him. In the back of his mind, he knew his grandmother would've called it a _fainting couch_. Its cushion rippled, as if proving that it was indeed soft and not a shimmering, impossible illusion. The invitation to sit lasted only a second before the couch took on a new guest.

The man had sun-weathered skin, but his beard and hair were silky white. He wore a white leisure suit and a Panama hat. His dentures chomped on his pipe. "Watch closely," Ash's deceased grandfather told him. "This wizard. He's a good match."

The vision and the statement were as senseless to Ash as the sight of Foster's bones, all three holding together, as they lifted in one dripping piece, out of the incision. The radius, ulna, and humerus, connected at the elbow by collateral ligaments, dislodged from Foster's arm, leaving Ash unable to fathom how the boneless arm stayed aloft as it did.

His grandfather laughed and slapped his leg.

"Grandad?"

Sammual-Payu Hastings stretched his leathery face into the grin that Ash had not seen since he was ten. He took off his hat and dabbed at his forehead like it was the heat of the day on his boat. "You watch him," he instructed his grandson. Ash turned back to Foster, whose face showed no pain, no shock, only deep concentration.

As if practicing obedience, Ash watched the bones hover over the boy's body. As his eyes adjusted, other things came into view. The outline of a eye socket sparkled faintly where the old one had been destroyed. It was a grid, a blueprint. It glistened like blue quarts in all the areas where the body had suffered injury. Clusters of fine, pin-dots, burned bright blue and swarmed around the boy's head. They grew out of his crushed arm and shaped themselves into a forearm, wrist, hand and fingers. Ash also saw them through the rib puncture. They lit up the entire inside of the abdominal wall like blue fireflies swarming inside the cavity. The brighter they glowed, the darker Foster's hovering bones became, until it was clear that the sparks were drawing their power from the bones.

Ash turned back to his grandfather, to make sure he was seeing this too. But the man was gone, leaving Ash no choice but to witness this on his own. Blue sparks sizzled into activity, emitting a light that turned Foster's complexion with it. Ash got the impression of feeding piranha. Trillions of tiny lights worked together to weave new tissue where there was none. At their core, he saw forms taking shape. He saw groupings of complex tissue and wondered if rapid cell division was happening at all or if this was magic. He knew what it was, he just couldn't make himself accept it.

When Foster's bones were dry and resembled nothing more than brittle charcoal disintegrating onto the boy's chest, Ash freed himself from his shock enough to rush forward. When he did, calling Foster's name, the wizard looked up at him. Something behind his inscrutable gaze intensified. Ash followed it behind him, expecting his grandfather to have returned. But behind him, lying outstretched on the floor, still on his back from where he fell, wasn't his grandfather. It was his own body lying there, unaffected by the fact that he was looking down at it.

Now, not only could he not formulate any effective question around his surprise, he couldn't even think. His mind split into erratic helplessness. He tried to speak. He tried to ask Foster to help him understand. Foster's boneless arm lowered. The incision was already sealing itself up. The hand holding his wand raised to Ash. The last thing Ash saw, was something close to pity and compassion, marring the wizard's face. Brilliant white shards struck him through his eyes, to his brain, rendering all of it meaningless.

When Ash awoke, he was lying on his bed. It was one of those slow waking processes, where he wasn't sure if he wanted to come back or not. Shadows cast across his walls told him the sun was setting. Television noise, along with the tickle of frying liver and onions, told him Reuse was cooking in the house tonight. He lay fully dressed on top of the covers. He dug his phone out of his pocket. Five hours had passed. Seventeen text messages and twelve voicemails all wanted to know if he was okay. Was he on his way to the hospital? His assistance was needed with transporting victims of the local train crash. Mayo University Hospital was two hours away and he should've been on the road hours ago. Instead of returning the calls, he sat up, wiped the fog from his eyes, and forced his legs to move in the direction of his basement.

Passing from the dining room to the kitchen, he caught sight of the television. Reuse sat with her back to him, her skirted legs hanging off slightly. She must've felt his presence. She turned, her thin hand covering her mouth. "Isn't it awful? They don't expect to find all the bodies."

On the screen, an aerial shot of the wreckage showed emergency crews dwarfed by collapsed girding and steel frames. Teams of trucks lined roadside, waiting to get close enough with their hoses to have any affect on the fires that were still burning, still tossing toxic plumes into the air.

Still groggy, Ash found himself annoyed as well as curious. "Did the hospital try to get in touch with you? I never heard my phone."

"Oh, yeah," she sat up straight. Crumbs fell from her mouth as she brushed them off and hurriedly explained, "About that. It was Foster's idea that I turn your phone off. He said that the hospital would think that you were needed, but you really weren't. He said you'd been helping him and not to let anyone disturb you until you got up on your own."

Ash kept his expression professionally empty. He hoped she saw a polite smile, instead of what he was really thinking. Ms. Reuse Wintry wasn't an overly conscientious person. It would not have occurred to her to put the lives of train survivors over Foster's instructions. She also didn't scrub bathtubs or like to answer the phone, even though he was paying her to do so. Her saving grace was the fact that she kept his home clean in all other respects, fed him edible meals, and flashed an array of stockinged calves so colorful and patterned, that not knowing what she was going to wear from day to day was a source of entertainment at the worst of times. She wore no make up, but compensated by keeping her best features adorned. Today's selection was yellow and green plaid, conforming over her, surprisingly thick, toes all the way up over her knees. Her skirts never revealed more than that. He didn't bitch about the bathtubs, she didn't criticize him for staring. Deal. When it came to Foster, they tried to maintain the same civil arrangement.

If Foster had said to let him sleep, then what choice did she have? Speaking of, he grabbed his keys and headed for the basement. "Don't expect I'll be back till morning."

She made an agreeable noise. "Thought so. You have fresh clothing packed in your back seat. Foster won't mind taking your dinner with me then."

Of course he won't, Ash smiled. Because Foster is a man, apparently, when it suits him.

It would've been nice if Reuse behaved, even a little, as if Ash were her employer, and not Foster. He thought about being a smartass and throwing the question over his shoulders, "And what are his wages like?" But he knew he was only taking his frustration out on her. Far more pressing matters awaited him in the basement.

He took one deep breath before diving down the stairs. The lights were on and no sign of the power outage was present. Even the trays had been cleared from the floor and drawers put back into their shelves. Scattered files sat neatly in their places. With each step, he peered at the table coming into view. His steps slowed, taking in Foster's back to him. The boy was still on the table, but covered up to his neck. Foster was seated in such a way that he might've been asleep. He might've been praying. Ash couldn't be sure. The stairs creaked, and Foster still didn't look up.

Ash cleared his throat, glancing around the room. So that was a hallucination? A bit stronger than the acid he'd tried in his twenties. Back then, he'd only sat in a bar watching his skin melt painlessly off of his arms while his friends passed hooch. At no point did his dead granddad make an appearance. And while he couldn't quite remember their conversation, he got the feeling Sammual-Payu Hastings approved of this wizard.

Foster had to know that he was standing there, waiting for a response. He was dressed again, in the same clothes he had removed. But something was different about him. Ash zeroed in on his left arm, to see if he could move it. Nothing on Foster moved. Not his eyes, not his breathing, nothing. He knew that Foster could hear him, even if he wasn't responding. Was five hours long enough to mourn the boy?

He wracked his brain trying to come up with a plausible excuse for having a dead body in his house.

He gave in. "So what happened?" Maybe Foster would deny it. "What'd I miss?"

As expected, Foster granted him nothing. At first Ash surmised it to be the silent treatment that Foster wielded like a weapon. Then he noticed how grey Foster's complexion was. His lips parted and it was as if the weight of his jaw sent his head forward, pulling the rest of his body with it. Ash caught him as he slipped forward from his chair. "Wait, wait!"

He realized Foster was trying to stand, and couldn't. "Hold on, I've got you. Don't try to get up."

When Foster didn't argue with him, on a dime, Ash's concern went from prying the dead boy away from him, to monitoring Foster's vital signs. "Say something, Foster."

Foster lifted his face. His words were barely above a whisper. "Don't move him."

Ash shook his head. "It's been five hours. He's gone. If I don't report him, it's going to raise more questions than I can answer. I'll say… I drove near the wreckage and found him. I'll say, he had a pulse and I thought I could save him. I'll say whatever it takes, but you have to let him go with me now."

He pulled easily from Foster's grasp, noticing how Foster clutched at him with only his right hand. He took the left lapel of Foster's coat and pulled it away from his shoulder. Several things clicked at once. Foster's left arm was folded uselessly in his lap. Ash reached out tentatively and lifted it by the sleeve. Foster winced and pulled back as his arm lolled over the side of his leg. His painful expression sobered Ash to the realization that Foster was now wearing the coat he'd carried the boy in. His clothes were clean. The sheets were clean. The floor was clear of blood, mud and grime that had dripped onto it. Streaks of blood had dripped down the sides of the table. That was gone too.

Ash backed away from Foster, allowing his body to slump forward. Foster appeared to keep his head raised with effort that made his face tremble, shaking perspiration loose from his hair. "You must not move him. Not for a whole day." His lips curled around his words. "It will take that long for his body to set."

Ash kept backing away. His rear hit the table behind him, shaking it on its locked castors. He quickly turned, seeing what he'd refused to see upon coming down the stairs. The boy had a face. A complete face. With smooth skin where the fractures had been. His hair spread thick and healthy all over his scalp. It connected with the pillow in dark tufts.

Ash stopped himself from touching it, from feeling the back of the cranium to make sure. Instead, he took hold of the sheet and tore it back from the rest of the boy's body.

Sick with the inability to deny what he saw, he shook his head at the new limbs. They lay, unapologetic and real and pulsing. It wasn't just the sight of seeing new, flesh and blood, limbs where there hadn't been any before. It was having the new skin outlined for him. It was as if the tissue contained liquid light running through its newly formed vascular structures, and appeared lighter in tone than the rest of him. It was like seeing magic learn to be blood and learn to be bone. Ash was seeing the magic as it learned to come to life and to blend smoothly with the boy's other functions. He'd seen Foster's magic before, but not like this. Not come to life and thriving in complete imitation of human biology. He removed the sheet completely. Translucent, frosty skin covered the rib damage and the entire abdominal area. Paper thin white toes, told him that the boy had also been missing a foot.

Ash had so many questions. He could find words for none of them, as he stared at the newly formed foot. He lifted his hand and came close to touching the toes, before hearing Foster hiss, "No. Not for twenty-four…" Foster tumbled forward. Ash abandoned the boy and caught him before his head hit the floor. He wrestled Foster back into the chair and told him to hush. "Let me look at your arm."

Foster jerked his body away, using his shoulders to twist out of Ash's grip. His right arm made a feeble attempt to hold Ash back. "It will heal," he insisted.

"For god's sake will you just let me help you?" It took pinning Foster to the floor, no easy feat even in his weakened state, before Ash could reason with him.

"All right. You've fixed him. You've proven that he's going to be okay. He's asleep over there. He's safe and I'll look after him. I promise. Now that I know he's alive, he's not going anywhere. Now please, let me tend to you. You must've given that kid everything. Tell me what you did."

He knew that Foster was too weak to really talk. He wasn't trying to get him to talk. He was trying to get him to let go. Tiring Foster out by fighting him, by keeping him excited, risked shock, but seemed to be working as Foster's resistance grew less and less. Ash stalled by talking about the vision he thought was a hallucination. "I saw my dead granddad. I saw my body. You're going to have to explain that to me."

Foster's eyes were nearly closed by the time Ash got a sedative into him. He opened them just as the needle was going in. The strength he used to clutch the doctor by his throat, startled Ash.

"Don't move him." These were Foster's final words before his head collapsed against the floor.

Before heading to the hospital, Ash caught Reuse setting two places at the table. "Foster's having a bad spell," he told her. "Can you look in on him? He's in his old bedroom."

Reuse didn't have to be persuaded. She was the one who'd pointed out Foster's peculiar iron deficiency two years ago. "Wizards like that use all their iron for their alchemy. They keep very little for their bodies." Because of her interest in witchcraft, her insight was helpful.

Now she looked at him, going silent with the duty entrusted to her.

"He's been through something." He bent to her. "Don't let him leave. Give him the benzodiazepine if you have to. I'll be back as soon as I can."

True to his word, Ash did not attempt to move the boy. He monitored his vitals and observed progress when he wasn't assisting at the hospital. New skin adapted coloration from the old. Parts of the boy's jaw had been baby smooth after Foster's transplant. Within forty-eight hours, his pours took on the shadow of a youth with the ability to shave.

When Ash wasn't observing the body, he was sitting by Foster's old bed, mystified at the miracle of growth he was seeing. The muscles in Foster's arm lost their tone, but gained structure at their core. Just to be on the safe side, he put the entire arm in a cast, hoping immobility would aid in the healing.  
He knew that Foster would remove it as soon as he could.

The greatest challenge turned out to be sneaking the boy back to the wreckage once Foster decided he could be moved. It had to look like he'd never left the site. It had to look as if his skin had never been cleansed and his clothes discarded. Though Ash was nowhere near the kid's build, he allowed Foster to use an old undershirt of his, and jeans, to approximate torn and filthy clothing. They were rinsed in muddy water, dried, scorched, and draped loosely over the boy. Foster forced the kid to sleep through it all. He removed his cast, as Ash anticipated. He said his arm was weak, but functioning. After he apparated with the boy, in the middle of the night, he returned an hour later, and promptly put the cast back on himself. This confirmed Ash's suspicion that Foster was in pain and needed more time to recover.

 

***

**Present Day**

 

Harry stared up at the wayward stacks of columns that structured Gringott's entrance. He had put off returning here for over a year. No longer. Gobblins were the only people he knew who specialized in Equity Magic. Their meticulous records of bloodlines, contracts, and which treasures belonged to whom, made them expert detectives when it came to tracing and reading magic. Their culture sat on secrets of discernment that rivaled any seasoned auror. They were recognized as a persecuted race and their methods were protected by law. So Harry had to be there. He had to go inside, even though it was the last thing he wanted to do. After the incident with the dragon, with Griphook, the wards knew him there. They were customized to recognize him. He could still enter, but once he did, every employee and security guard would know it.

They say you should always go with your first hunch. That meant tracing his steps to the Goblin bank and dealing with all the formalities he'd left sleeping in the dark after the war. Those creatures had great memories and unforgiving intelligence. They never forgot what you did to them, even if you were trying to save the wizarding world from a tyrant. Goblins calculated how they could turn their tragedy into a profit, agreed on a truce, and smiled their jagged teeth at you. Their friendliest smiles showed what their bite could do to you if you ever gave them a reason to.

They would never forget the breech of their establishment, the magic used against them, or the deaths of their own. In their stories, Griphook was forever cheated out of his rightful treasure, the Sword of Gryffindor. His intention to claim the treasured artifact had justified his actions. No one died until Harry's friends set lose the dragon. Their own dragon was used against them, and Voldemort's bare feet tracked the blood of Goblin corpses down the length of their polished floors. All for the sake of capturing the great Harry Potter.

No. Harry didn't want to dig into his vaults unless he had no other choice. That was partly the reason he'd procrastinated coming with Draco to apply for a house elf.

Gringotts was a place where one had to trust creatures that aroused one's defenses. Being experts in archiving, safekeeping, and preserving treasures, they were finely tuned to suspicion. They invited your patronage with one eye and dared you to cross them with the other. One always had to meet them prepared to withstand potential resistance. Time spent focussing on the soft easiness of his daughter, had ruined Harry for the likes of hardcore goblins and guilt he probably deserved.

He'd spent his whole life facing ugly situations and having to fight his way through them. He had a new respect for uncomplicated, gentle things that couldn't fight if they wanted to. Sweet, helpless people. Things that had no egos and nothing to hide. Children, animals, innocent things. It made him miss Hedwig's snowy, brilliant company. The last thing he wanted to do was look another accusing goblin in the face. But it was time to confront the truth head on.

They didn't even allow him to approach any of the clerks. Once he stepped through the door, no lights flashed, no alarms sounded. But two security wizards blocked his path. Instead of addressing him, they waited for the Goblin manager to walk up from behind. The little person carried a black board, devoid of paper or any writing instrument. He ran plump fingers down the front of his suit and smartly extended his hand to Harry. "Mr. Potter! So good to see you. Todrick, at your service. What brings you to our fine establishment today?"

Harry tried not to show his relief. Leave it to Goblins to hire the most human-looking among them, to greet the most troublesome customers. It worked to diffuse most of the tension, most of the history. The bank didn't want any more trouble than he did. They were two opponents who respected the magic of the other. That did not mean they had to like each other.

Harry got right to the point. "I need to retrieve an object from my vault." He made an effort to show respect. "Sir."

"Of course. Would you be so kind as to follow me?" Todrick inclined his head slightly before turning.

He escorted Harry past the queues, past the stares of the other customers and clerks, and off to a little room whose door was concealed in the wall before hand gestures made it visible. Harry stopped short when he entered the room. It resembled an interrogation room at the Ministry, with only a table and two chairs. The room was meant for privacy, yet Harry knew he was being monitored from behind the walls. He took the seat offered to him.

Todrick asked, "Would you like to retrieve the object yourself, or do you give consent to have it brought to you?"

"You can bring it. Please." Harry knew that every word out of his mouth was being monitored for contractual intention. If his statements registered a certain score, they could be deemed as binding and documented in his records.

"And does Mr. Potter have his identifier?"

"I do." Harry fished in his pocket for the paper he needed. He'd gotten it from the bound book of his documented assets and belongings currently being secured. He and Draco received updated books every year, which grew thicker and thicker with each magical addition or subtraction, monetary or magical, recorded to his accounts. Draco's financial volumes required a library of shelves.

Unfolding the paper, Harry thought he saw Todrick's eyes anticipating the number.

"The object that I wish to see, is number 807A-2001-GGSS-RED-81."

Todrick's expression went unchanged as he waved his hand over the table. The number appeared in gold leaf and stood visible beneath the surface of the varnish, before dissolving. "Thank you, your possession will be with you momentarily."

Todrick took two steps back, trained to put distance between himself and a client's treasure.

When Harry looked from him, back down to the table, the object was already there. His heart fluttered a little, not quite ready to see the little box again. It was a case, made of deep green glass and he'd not laid eyes on it in two years. The size and shape of a cigar box, it bent the light and reflected elegant craftsmanship. Silver snakes were mounted at each end and functioned as handles. He remembered noticing the detail that went into their scales, the emeralds that glistened in their eyes, and buying it on the spot. He hadn't been looking for it. He hadn't needed it. But it was perfect for his last parting gift from McGonagall. She'd given him a flat tin of Snape's ashes. The rest, she intended to store in an undisclosed location on school grounds.

When he'd first approached her after the funeral, he didn't know how she would react to his request. It was a strange request. But if anyone understood why he wanted a sample of the remains, it was she.

She'd told him. "Professor Snape's remaining family do not acknowledge him, so I have no qualms about giving you these." She shook the urn without touching it and used her wand to dump a small portion of its contents into an antique pill tin, which bore the image of a black peacock. Harry had smiled gratefully and thanked her.

Now he raised the green lid, removed the tin from its bed of black velvet, and placed it in front of Todrick. "I need to have this analyzed. I'll pay top dollar for your deepest inquiry. And extra for an Oath of Truth."

Todrick lost his pleasant smile upon hearing the last. "You do not have to pay for the truth, Mr. Potter. We are always honest with you."

"Yes, I agree, and I don't mean to offend you. But I believe someone else might've used a very legal Privacy Clause to keep certain information from showing up. I dare to risk your offense because I need to get as much information on these ashes as I can. I want you to test any traces of magic left. Tell me, this time under oath, if these are the actual remains of Severus Snape."

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Please review! :-)


	8. Evening's Freedom - Lucius Malfoy (old chapter)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Walls, wards, and restraining orders, are not enough to keep Lucius from seeing the daughter Harry bore against his will. While the Ministry can trace his use of magic, they cannot trace his spirit. Apparently, the child creates a binding contract between himself and Harry.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is just a glimpse into Lucius' part of the story. It was meant to be a one-shot, but has now become chapter 8 in Harry's version. The story will still primarily grow from Harry's version. Lucius' account below, really begins in Unbearable - Draco.
> 
> JK Rowling is the owner and mastermind of Harry Potter. I am merely a fan.

***THIS IS NOT A NEW CHAPTER. THERE WILL BE A NEW ONE TODAY, THOUGH.***

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A/N: I can't believe I have to say this. I do not agree with Lucius' views, only that blood carries genetic information. Apparently, my writing is so convincing that I have to calm some fears. Lucius is the wizard who gave a little girl an evil book that tried to kill her. I am not. His logic is very simple and is not about hatred in this story. A line that has practiced magic is more magical than a line that has not. Every race and color can have fun with this! Also, remember this is renegade writing. It's not meant to be canon. It has no beta so far. I'm following what makes me happy, fascinating characters forced to bare their souls. Hope you have fun too.

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It wasn't up to him.

No jury would believe him.

It was his magic. He couldn't help it if his magic knew how to escape prisons that his body did not.

Lucius swiveled his drink and admired how firelight glowed through the dark amber of his glass. That still, hypnotic moment made him realize that he drank port, not for its flavor, but for its ability to hone his focus. His mind sustained itself with pending intentions and strategies to execute them, so the elixir in his hand was one way to step back from momentum and see how his plans were shaping up. One could become intoxicated on anything, but the shimmer of his drink, in the comfort of his study, was his chosen method of clearing his mind.

Sitting up after midnight, long after kissing his wife goodnight, this was his way of letting the Universe restore balance to him and appreciating that he no longer had dementors feasting on him anymore. His magic, his sanity, had survived six months of it. He wasn't the same, but that didn't mean he'd lost an ounce of integrity. It simply went underground. It waited for his health to return. It waited for the Ministry's surveillance to become appeased. It waited to fulfill probationary stipulations. It waited for his assets to be restored, though not to their former glory anytime soon. It waited.

One thing that didn't wait, was his magic.

He couldn't help it if there were scrolls, written in cellular form, in the building blocks of his blood, and the blood of his offspring. Magic traveled by blood. That was real, no matter what trend or campaign for equal treatment denied that reality. It wasn't about sneering at the lesser children of the world. It was about keeping the strengths one had, and making sure successors had something of value to navigate their way through life with. When his money could not take care of him in Azkaban, his ancestors had. Through his blood. Through his magic. And that was where the value of undiversified blood came from.

Their strength knew where to flow because he possessed a double helix spinning in perfect unison to the master strands that created it, that nourished it. That structure was a vortex, imitating the spin of galaxies and the energetic aura of every living person on this planet. People, muggles and wizards alike, walked with many vortices creating a maelstrom of power some six feet around their bodies. Some more powerful than others. But his wasn't powerful because it was given that way. It was powerful because he honored it. He maintained it for those who had given it to him, and through it, they fed his magic. Like his ancestors, he grew it and refined it with his life. He raised Draco to do the same. Honor the blood and you will always have the most potent vein of magic, whatever life throws at you. Fortunes can be rebuilt. But don't lose your magic and don't diminish it with the non-magical around you. They're cute, but don't bring them home.

He came from wizards who wanted to put their worlds together in any way they chose, unsanctioned by those who feared magic and didn't possess it in equal measure.

His line made their blood formidable among wizards through proper usage and breeding. Lazier bloodlines could pretend that it was all about everyone being happy and all the same if they wanted to. That was just a cover for one group being afraid of another's power. Hold the smartest child back, so that the others don't feel bad about themselves. Really? That was barbaric. Lucius' family knew that you didn't look to others to make you feel good about yourself. You grew your own power from within and you didn't need to rely on anyone's favor. That was just sensible. Otherwise, you spent your life in fear of what someone else had over you, or what they could make you do. The only responsible thing on earth a wizard could do, was keep his magic potent and accessible to his offspring. That didn't happen with laws boasting of equality for all.

If you want power, work for it. Be willing to be hated over being nice. Be willing to choose purity over the genetics of those coming from ages of magicless interbreeding and victim mentalities. When one took care of the blood, it took care of them. The proof was in his survival.

If he kept his property maintained and immaculate while his neighbor did not, then yes, he had a superior property. Simple as that, your precious feelings be damned. Purebloods may have gone out of fashion, but it was still the richest artery of magic and no politics were ever going to alter that reality in any way.

The events were unpredictable. He couldn't help it if his magic knew how to find Harry, when even his mind did not. Harry himself, owed his ability to defeat the Dark Lord, to very concentrated magic. To very purified blood, strained of sluggish imperfections. Lucius couldn't see it before. But the events have given him a window into Harry's gifts. He's seen the young man's energy, spiraling out from white-hot cores within the vertical axis of his body. He's actually stood over Harry Potter's bed and seen it.

He doesn't know when it's going to happen. It just happens. He doesn't plan on it. It's not as if he's going out of his way to get to Harry. In many ways, it's as if Harry comes to him. If not the boy himself, then at least his magic.

The event. That's what Lucius calls it. It wasn't so much born of his desire to escape the long shadows of the manor, as it was his desire to escape limitations imposed upon him. His body, now free from a prison made of stone and cold, wet and rot, pulled the silence and beauty of his home around him like a warm blanket by a glowing hearth. Monsters need comfort too, he mused.

As long as any governing body of judgement deigned to tell him what he could and couldn't do, he could not rest without calculating the weaknesses of his sentence. His magic did it for him, seeking and breathing freedom wherever it felt cut off. Iron shackles did that to a man. They did worse to a wizard accustomed to nothing but full reign to use his abilities. A man might be brought low, through the pain of his body. But magic existed apart from flesh and it wasn't going quietly. Even when Lucius lay stripped of all dignity, as long as he didn't think about the tears of his wife, he could still laugh at the Ministry's pitiful efforts to rob him of his magic. As long as Draco was still alive, he could hold his head aloft, having done everything the Dark Lord asked him to, to make that possible. He regretted nothing that kept his family alive. Nothing.

The only thing that bothered him was his home's stark emptiness, and that didn't mean the collections and furnishings that Draco had the decency to protect from further seizure and confiscation. He still had most of the relics of his ancestry and was working on retrieving more. He still had many of the prizes, which mythologized his perfect lineage. Emptiness referred to the spark in his wife's eyes and laughter, and the way they dimmed to embers in their conversation. Emptiness referred to the absence of his son, and the boy's thriving potential echoing off the walls in the form of new blood-family, an anticipated fiancée for Draco. There would've been a new child by now, awarded from Draco's duty to his family. Draco had proven loyal, and instilled with Malfoy values. He'd wisely compromised where he had to, to gain the Minister's trust. That continued the family's foothold in the political and business arena, till more trust could be purchased and used to climb out of disgrace.

If his family had been left alone to heal from a madman's control, they would've recovered just fine. The manor had always been silent. But now it was wounded to the soul, insulted by an absence of prosperity and family. Lucius was busy rectifying that. But their lives had been derailed, not destroyed. Much like that train fiasco involving the Potter boy. Draco could give him a grandchild yet. He was already holding his own in finances and extended scholarship. And he did it while taking care of his infant sister. Proof of blood again.

Lucius felt tension leave his mouth as a smile gently took over. His daughter. His blood.

She was a beauty. The best thing about her was that her birth-father would never be able to deny where her blood came from. He wouldn't be able to pretend that she could be anyone else's. Every time he looked at her, his own hypocrisy would be staring back at him. Her magic was sure to be powerful. Not because of her equality, Harry, but because of her goddamned blood.

_I've seen her magic, my boy. And you won't like it._

Draco is keeping her safe. It's good that Draco stays close to Harry so that he can make sure his sister is treated well. He was very proud of Draco, though those words, even if Draco would listen to them, might sound hollow after two years of estrangement. One's prison exceeded the terms of the sentence itself.

Still, she was worth the sacrifice. Harry's as well as his own. At first he wasn't sure. Her presence was a novelty, unsought and unwanted. Then Narcissa had smiled bravely, her grace unfailing, and said, "I want her. We can't leave her to him. He's been raised by those without magic, he doesn't know any better. He doesn't know how to temper the Malfoy heritage. Her magic knows us and it will expect us to do right by it."  
Her eyes had lowered as she admitted. "A lesser person would resent her. But she exists because you were keeping us alive. If Harry Potter's magic, and yours, had to unite to save my family, then so be it. I want her here, so that we can be her primary influences. Make up to your son. Make up to Harry. Those were war crimes, done upon orders to do so. They shall not stop us from living to the fullest extent of our abilities. We've suffered enough. Get your son back, and bring me that baby. Harry can't be happy with her, not under those circumstances. If we make a show of throwing ourselves on his mercy, of expressing true sorrow, we might be able to relieve him of his burden. You know she's only a burden to him."

They still couldn't bring themselves to call her by that god-awful name. I-ece. It sounded like some trendy, muggle rap musician trying to make a name for himself. Lucius knew about such entities from his work in the Ministry and regulating relations between cultures. He could only frown at Harry's influences. His daughter deserved an elegant name.

He had looked into Narcissa's eyes and seen the truth. To her, the baby was a chance to be a mother to Draco all over again. She hadn't given up on Draco and she wasn't going to let him walk away as if he wasn't in possession of something of great value to her. While the infant wasn't a grandchild, it was the closest thing she might ever have to one. An infant who looked like her son's baby pictures, could heal what Draco's estrangement had done to her heart. She could dress it in heirloom clothing. She could take it shopping, and flaunt its pedigree. She could revamp the nursery, and keep a frame of Draco's childhood picture on one side, and Iece's on the other and watch them play with one another through an entire dimensional generation. More than anything, she could instill the Black influence of her own family, for there were some things a Black witch's upbringing was never to go without. Since Harry's own father was of Black decent, Narcissa knew, like her husband, the blood would hold her accountable. She couldn't neglect blood. It's what gave them their magic.

Maybe the Dark Lord had known this and the baby's existence was a true testament to his evil genius. In any case, Narcissa needed that baby more than it needed her, they both knew. Harry didn't want it, surely. Harry couldn't want it. That's why Draco stayed so close to him, to keep her safe. Not that they believed Harry capable of harming the baby, but both knew he couldn't be entirely balanced after what Voldemort had Lucius do to him. No one would be, especially not a soft boy brought up by muggles. Harry may have proven his grit in the war, but fighting does not equate to quality. That baby shouldn't have to be subjected to instability of any kind. It wasn't her fault that Harry got pregnant from the curse instead of dying.

Narcissa swallowed back her emotions. "Please make peace with Harry. I want her to grow up with family. I want to be seen with my head held high and to show her off. I want to show the world that we too have come through our ordeal with renewal and blessings. We will not hide our pride just because of one awful night. Or a thousand awful nights. We have a place in this world. We have not abandoned our son and he has not given up on us. The child that people believe to be his, will be seen in our company, for we have survived intact. She will be a beacon of pride, not shame, as so many would like. She will represent our triumphs, not our failures."

Hope stood wet and glassy, threatening to spill from her eyes.

He loved his wife. He was still unable to make love to her, a condition of his sentence in Azkaban that was taking its time wearing off, even after two years. At least the tremors were gone. And the nightmares. But all she seemed to need of him was his warmth, his weight, and his caresses, to reassure her that they were out of the prison and free in the sun. What he couldn't do with his body, he did with his magic. His hands made sure she knew how much he thought of her, and his mouth inspired her tears for different reason, that had nothing to do with the loss of her son.

When sleep took her, he remained awake, unsatisfied, and retreated to his study. His thoughts usually led back to Draco, Potter, and the child. He's certain that some central longing to regain mastery over his household, played a great part in what he discovered when his body fell asleep in his chair.

Prisoners are not allowed to dream in Azkaban. That is, sleep cycles are influenced by security spells which prevent one from entering the deepest stages of sleep for extended periods. It is in the deepest stages of rest that the body repairs itself and cleanses cellular chemistry with an influx of renewed vitality. A fresh start. If truest and deepest sleep were allowed, wizards would cure themselves of their nightmares. Trauma, inflicted by the presence of dementors, would lessen and heal over time, resulting in adaptation to conditions until finally being little affected by them. Eventually, every wizard would be able to reclaim his or her magic, even behind prison walls, which would of course render the concept obsolete. Can't have that. Spells and drugged food did not allow the soul to escape through dreams. The body's hold was not allowed to loosen.

That was the true prison. And Lucius had forgotten it until his body learned to settle again into his bed and his favorite chair. He had to learn to become comfortable in his skin again before trusting himself to deep sleep. It must've taken a year for him to awaken without panic, without feeling on the brink of a slow, grotesque kiss that would end his life. After a year, he began to dream again. They were not the psychological brutalities induced by levels of sleep that only yielded nightmares. They were real dreams. The soul requires regular escape from the confines of the body, through nightly dreams. This regulates the entire awake-sleep cycle that tells one what is real, and what _could_ be real.

Standing over Harry Potter's bed, watching him sleep, could've been real. The soul takes its surroundings for granted. That's why the illusion is so engaging and one does not question it. At first it was just a dim room that hinted of blue walls, a white muggle baby-bed, not a proper crib, and soft lighting that glowed just enough from a bathroom, to light the toys and objects littering the floor. The floor, it was that cheap synthetic stuff that passed for muggle carpeting. Lucius mused at the details his dream chose to show. Sometimes he saw Draco sleeping next to Harry. Sometimes he only saw Harry.

Other times, he goes straight for the child's bed. Most of the time she's awake and blinking expectantly back at him. She's pulled herself up by the bars along her bed and her eyes follow him, flashing excitedly at his entry. He feels her. At first, it had been enough to find her sleeping and, at last, sneak her into his arms. Despite not having done such a thing for decades, he wanted to see if he still had his touch. He cradled her head in the palm of his hand and supported her back with the other. There'd been a time when he could put Draco to sleep against him, when even Narcissa and her servants could not. What did Draco call her? Nicee. Her curling into a ball against him, resuming a trust reserved for the womb, was the ultimate test of his worthiness. The first three times he dreamt this, his soul flooded with her unconditional acceptance. She literally sent love into him. He overflowed with it until he lost all sense of his dream-body and his ability to hold her. He thought he was dropping her, until he awoke in his study to find that it was merely a very pleasant dream. One of the first since his release.

He'd been prepared to hate her, for he knew quite well that she was power having taken the form of a child. But her acceptance told him that she was not his enemy. If anything, she was one of the few who could really see him, and approved of what she saw. She had come to do work, to shift entire concepts among the masses. She was glad to have come through him. Each time he went to her bed, they regarded each other like old friends.

In dreams, her miniature features kept her in baby form, but her sentience and intelligence is fully developed behind her eyes and she feels him as well. There would come a day when she wouldn't remember her ability to look at someone and know everything she needed to know about them. That day comes for most. But Lucius enjoyed the advantage of having his daughter see down to his soul, and still retain a smile on her face that showed no signs of diminishing. As he held her stare, they talked. They used the oldest language that dreamers speak to one another in, that held no barriers to age, culture, or dimension.

He's learned that he cannot go to Draco's side of the bed and touch him. If he tries, Draco will vanish and he will awaken. It's as if, even his dream knows he no longer has the right to touch his son. Until Draco forgives him, he will not. If one cannot be free in dreams, then what did that leave?

That left Harry Potter. When he focused on Harry, Draco and Nicee disappeared, leaving them alone.

Lucius didn't know how he felt about him. The boy wasn't supposed to survive, and that was very inconvenient. As messy as that was, he'd gotten a daughter out of it. Her blood was exquisite. Not even Narcissa, bless her to the highest, had been able to repeat the perfection of a second child. The dear had simply given everything she had to the first one. That was entirely forgivable. Their loyalty to their blood-magic had honored them with another child anyway. Nicee was further proof that the Universe favored and supported them. It was no small detail that she'd come through the person who defeated Voldemort, thereby gaining Harry's magic as well as Lucius'. Apparently, the blood had wanted to merge and Lucius had to start thinking in terms of creating a civil atmosphere around Harry. They would never be friends. They would never respect one another. But they'd both been manipulated into sharing blood by powers far greater than Voldemort. And this was how royalty was chosen, Lucius mused.

He remembered the night he did it. Standing over Harry's bed, he almost expected the room to change to that night, where sex and death were allowed to sweat into his hall with great intensity. He'd presided as executioner and his Deatheater fellows, some still alive, were held captive to the blood sport that took place. But he didn't want to relive that. It took practice, but he learned to find something about Harry that would keep the scene from changing into that irreversible night. He learned to focus on Harry's mouth. Unlike the hair and the scar, it didn't take him back to Voldemort.

The mouth made him confess that Harry was actually attractive. He hadn't always thought so. James Potter's son always seemed to have a homeliness about him that Lucius had always associated with his father. Maybe it was the glasses. Maybe it was their association with muggles, he wasn't sure. Knowing that Harry had been raised and primarily influenced by that family Dumbledore simply, recklessly handed him to, cinched it. There was no hope for that child after that. Not in terms of pureblood etiquette. It was only when he'd had Harry beneath him, driving into him, that the boy's magic was forced to the surface, allowing Lucius to see what he really looked like for the first time.

As a man, Harry was handsome.

As a man in sexual pain, Harry was a dark beauty.

At the time, he was still more boy than man, and he'd done nothing to impress Lucius' mind any differently since. Lucius remembered thinking, riding the boy, drinking screams filled with a male's potent testosterone, that if it wasn't for what Harry had done to Draco, he'd be willing to let Harry live. It wasn't as if he had a choice in the matter. He'd teach Harry this lesson, and then maybe he'd keep him for special occasions. Let him wander freely, even marry, then summon him through contractual servitude when needed. Clearly, his gifts did not present themselves until one was inside him to the hilt.

And having seen it, Lucius could not unsee it. This is what held him by the bed and in the dream. It was his dream, he might as well entertain himself. He may not have been able to satisfy himself in waking life, but in dreams, he should've been able to get some pleasure, somehow.

He threw back the sheet to make peace with whatever lack awaited him. Male angles have never impressed him, but a female's loveliness could. Since Harry was neither interesting nor female, Lucius didn't expect his rumpled pajamas to do much for him. But Harry wasn't wearing pajamas. And he wasn't entirely male.

Lucius was only interested in magic. When he threw back the sheet, he saw what he most wanted to see. Magic, combined with a commingling of all of his other, unmet needs. A young man lay before him, sleeping in a T-shirt and shorts. Not underwear, but the kind meant to be seen in public. His chest and torso held admirable flat planes and neat lines befitting sublime tone and condition. Definitely male. Definitely beautiful. The perfect molding of his limbs extended over his hips and carved thighs on down. In fact, the high, retro cut of the shorts revealed that Harry had perfectly beddable thighs. Lucius knew that older, fleshier men did, but this seemed especially intriguing about Harry.

What else did his dream want to give him? The want had no more formed in his mind than he reached for the protuberance sleeping in the boy's shorts. He gauged and measured the qualities of it with his hand. As he did, the first stirrings of real interest spread, infusing him with authentic arousal. As Harry stirred, knocking his hand away in his sleep, Lucius got creative.

Let's make this interesting, he smiled to no one but himself. He only meant to have Harry's body take on the characteristics of the curse he'd last seen the boy afflicted with. The Unbearable. Lucius remembered the strange appeal of it, and he'd since dubbed the boy's shadowy pubis, and the grip inside of it, as 'dark meat.' He wanted to see it again. The curse revealed itself to his dream vision. Just as he could communicate with his daughter and feel her magic, he pulled back another layer of reality when he asked to see the curse. Harry's outward appearance remained male. But beneath it, bare skin darkened from cream to a thin layer of rich black hairs and hooded, pink juiciness beneath.

Lucius marveled. He had only to make a preference, to see one or the other. His vision went with his focus. What an unlimited dream. His study of it became just as engaging as the revealing of the curse itself. It was as if the curse merely lay dormant beneath Harry's skin, giving the illusion that it was entirely gone. It went deeper than genetics. It had grown roots and sank them into his magic, sustaining its life within him. How positively evil. How utterly genius. An intelligent curse that could find a way to survive.

As he focused on his appetite and the feast presented to him, he dismissed the things he couldn't quite make sense of. The air, appearing to move in a circle around them, or the giant wheel that emerged into sight, meters above their heads, and rotated down into invisibility. Symbols glowed upon it one second, the next they were gone and it moved, windmill fashion, back into the dark dimension from which it came. Instinct told Lucius that this was Harry's magic and should not be tampered with. It also told him that he could not hold this glimpse of Harry open forever.

Though he prided himself on being a wizard, there were times such as this that he couldn't deny he was a man. Presented with such bounty, after going without for so long, what man wouldn't slip his fingers into that delicate, skin covered gateway? He made his choice. Because he had not done it in so long, he didn't dare attempt to mount Harry's body. He didn't have to. His fingers sank so hungrily into Harry's hidden parts, causing such a disturbance to sleeping waters, that his whole body awoke to its full potential. The pads of his fingers triggered Harry's reflexes, causing Harry's legs to slam closed and his lower back to arch off the mattress. Muscles that, a moment ago, were slack and unguarded, jerked into contractions that adopted the pulse of Lucius' fingers. Adopted it and met it as Harry's body trembled against the slick charge of Lucius' hand. In sleep, his body voiced its surprise as his head pushed deeper into his pillow and his arms reached to push away a phantom it could not see.

Lucius merely willed him not to wake, because this was Lucius' dream and Harry enduring this kind of pleasure against his will was beyond beautiful. Beyond arousing. The very breath that fought its way from Harry's lungs, shaped itself into senseless words. They scraped the back of Harry's throat as they came out, reshaping the energy of Lucius' hand and throwing that translation out into the air, to return to Lucius' excitement again. Male, gurgling rage, choked on saliva that it couldn't swallow fast enough. Harry twisted his head, throwing his hair over his closed eyes, and Lucius thought of turning him to keep him from choking. He forgot it in the next second as Harry's voice did incredible things, inspiring his hand to plunge as daringly and disrespectfully as it wanted.

He ended up straddling the bed to hold Harry against the mattress in an effort to restrain his hips and fight for access into Harry's body. The boy was strong, even in sleep. Even in a dream. Maybe the fight was exactly what Lucius wanted. He did like the chase. He did like a worthy opponent. But most of all, he liked the cries he got out of Harry and this environment fed it all back to him, so he knew that Harry felt no pain, only violent, assaulting pleasure.

Try as he might, he couldn't access the deepest part of Harry. Harry's muscles locked him out of that treasure, but he could feel it with his mind and he could taste what it would be like to push into its velvet lining. He couldn't believe his dream would give him so much, and not that? He must've really wanted to spend his rage. He must've wanted to fight the boy, who nearly left his life in ruins, who should've been dead. He must've held some last, lingering resentment for how everything turned out and the only way he had of relieving himself was taking it out on that tiny, helpless blossom between the boy's legs.

Yes, it was the perfect curse because, if touched properly, it rendered women overwhelmed and in tears at the loss of their bodily control. A man can retain control. Woe to the man cursed with such an appendage wired to the whole of his body. For the duration of contact, he would be nothing but a slave.

With his eyes, Lucius drank the sight of liquid pooling on Harry's face and darkening his T-shirt. As his hand worked inside Harry's shorts, he memorized as much as he could of the boy's convulsions and sobs. His liquid slick fingers rolled hooded layers over a deceptively diminutive little bulb that pulsed against them. One fit wasn't enough. Lucius wanted to see and feel the reverberations of an all out seizure from Harry and that's what he got. His hold grew aggressive and his hand imprisoned Harry in that state until it seemed to go on without his control. The dream had understood what he wanted and kept Harry locked in that momentum longer than physically possible. Long enough to see the boy crash helplessly against his pillow as his magic tore through his body in a series of orgasms that produced tears without letting him catch his breath.

Lucius' amazement got the best of him. He let himself peek at what all of this activity was doing to the male form that hid it. To his delight, he saw that it was the same. Harry's male form had awakened into robust life and could no more be separated from what his inner female endured than he could be separated from the curse. The effect was even more dramatic and a weaker wizard could not have watched. Watery-white emission continued to flow when Harry's testicles emptied of viable sperm. Momentum pushed inert seminal fluid out of him, every jerk disrupting sobs that ground their way up from his gut and left his young body bouncing off the bed.

Lucius couldn't help but feel avenged as Harry's body spilled like a slot machine, its prized contents flowing in an unnatural manner that left no room for dignity and no denying that results that hard had to be painful. He almost felt sorry for Harry's curse. He certainly felt sorry for women, but secretly thanked them for possessing such engaging attributes. As long as Harry possessed this secret button, Lucius could push it anytime he wanted. Harry's magic was delicious and strong. How did he like having it used against him?

Lucius smiled, opening his eyes to sunlight encroaching into his study. He admitted who he had to thank for this influx of renewed vitality. That insane, reptilian control freak who'd cost him everything, but left him a daughter and maybe even a little more.

***

Harry woke up cold on his bathroom floor. He couldn't move and he couldn't call for help. His brain still couldn't piece together why he was there. He remembered the pain and the man. It was the worst nightmare he could ever remember, and he wasn't at all certain that it was over. His sore muscles told him that it could all come back at any second and he wouldn't survive it. His body needed time to recover. He had no recollection of getting from the bed to the bath, only the insanity that had held him prisoner in his bed for what seemed like hours. He could only compare it to being locked against the shock of a defibrillator, the way muggles used them on TV. Only worse. A million times worse. Before he lost consciousness again, he thanked god that his daughter was safe with Draco.

***

Draco lay in the dark, watching the light behind his curtains get brighter and brighter. His dreams made him think about the last time Harry had touched his body, and how offended Harry had been, to see that he could reproduce the effects of the curse. He'd told Harry that the curse had fried his magic. He'd meant that it had ruined boundaries and broken safety locks. Things couldn't just go back into place and just stay there like it never happened. He'd lived with the curse for months before Harry was attacked with it in a single night. His parents had given him the best of care and support, to see that he got through it. That it didn't drive him insane. And in that time, his father had sacrificed everything, down to his pride, to touch him and make him feel like he still belonged to the human race. He'd felt so repulsive, until Lucius accepted everything about him.

Draco wished that he could give that miracle to Harry too. Harry never talked about the curse, or whether he still felt affected by it. But Draco was and he wanted Harry to admit that he was also. If Harry would let him, he'd show him exactly what he'd learned about those unwanted parts and how they weren't that bad. Certainly not the threat he saw them as, when it first happened. Now that it was two years on, and it only happened when Draco wanted it to, it wasn't the hell he once believed it to be.

A/N: I can't believe I have to say this. I do not agree with Lucius' views, only that blood carries genetic information. Apparently, my writing is so convincing that I have to calm some fears. Lucius is the wizard who gave a little girl an evil book that tried to kill her. I am not. His logic is very simple and is not about hatred in _this_ story. A line that has practiced magic is more magical than a line that has not. Every race and color can have fun with this! Also, remember this is renegade writing. It's not meant to be canon. It has no beta so far. I'm following what makes me happy, fascinating characters forced to bare their souls. Hope you have fun too.

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But Harry had never experienced any of the good side of it. What he knew of the Unbearable curse, was terrifying to him and there would be no broaching the subject. There would be no change of heart. Draco understood that. It's just that, with dreams this powerful, and touch that good, he was sure all of Harry's fear would dissolve if he let Draco show him what a woman's body is capable of feeling. He had to squelch his wish for Harry, by making himself remember what his father had done. Harry had every reason to hate the curse and want nothing to do with it. That was too bad, because it was only a matter of time before he'd have to explain to Harry that the curse never really goes away.

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Please review! :-)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: I love every race and culture on this planet, don't let Lucius' outlook fool you. Every race holds a piece of the treasure map to happiness. But blood does hold volumes of information that gets passed on. What if he's not completely wrong? It has less to do with traits like hair and skin color, and more to do with which families have exercised magic and which have allowed it to die out. If you're interested in knowing more behind my intentions for Lucius' character, see my response to [Katrina_bell](https://archiveofourown.org/comments/218032433).


	9. Morning After (Evening's Freedom)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Draco has a decision to make. Harry has a commitment to keep.

Note: Part 6, [Evening's Freedom](https://archiveofourown.org/works/17911508), will become chapter 8, as well as remain a one-shot. Readers are missing vital information without it and coming to the wrong conclusions after, Morning After. I didn't realize how much it needed to be a part of the narrative. I'm waiting until the next chapter is ready because readers will think there is a new chapter when I insert it. Thank you.

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***THIS IS NOT A NEW CHAPTER. THERE WILL BE A NEW ONE TODAY, THOUGH.***

Present Day. Gelderland Holland, The Grey Estate.

Draco kept waking up to look at his charmed watch. It's deceptive face remained black, signaling that Harry was still asleep. Still, he couldn't shake the feeling that something was wrong. Just to make himself feel better, he got up, took Iece from her bed, and placed her beside him. At what point, she'd become his barometer for security, he didn't know. He only knew that if he could see her, if she was happy, then nothing could be as bad as it seemed. If the watch was his connection to Harry's state of mind, then she was a more powerful one. Watching her squirm her way closer and closer to him, he knew he was still in for a rough night with her knees and feet digging into his side, like she was trying to burrow her way into him. It made him wonder what it must've been like for Harry to carry her inside his body. How do women do that? How could anyone do that? By morning, she'd practically be on his chest and he'd have no memory of her settling there. She gave him the answer. Call Harry at first light. Give him a chance to rest. He had quidditch practice today, so that was probably his anxiousness reaching out to Draco, ruining his sleep.

At sunrise, Harry didn't answer his phone. When Jipsy presented herself, to bathe and feed Iece, Draco called the desk at Harry's hotel. He didn't want to be a clucking hen about it, but Harry needed looking after and apparating to him defeated the purpose of their time apart. Fussing over him sent the wrong message. They had to get used to being apart. Functioning like they were connected at the hip for the past two years, had fostered a codependency that Draco scorned. He didn't know why entirely, he just knew that if anything happened to Harry, and it could, he had to be prepared to take his sister and to stand on his own. That meant learning to be okay when Harry wasn't around. Learning to get what he needed from other sources. Harry had monopolized his whole life. Not on purpose, and not without his consent, but it still made Draco fear how much he relied on Harry to simply be available to him at all times.

On the phone, the clerk told him, "I'm sorry, Mr. Malfoy. Mr. Potter isn't answering his phone. Would you like to leave a message for him?"

Draco gritted his teeth. "Look, is there anyway you can send someone to his room? Knock on his door and make sure he's okay? It's not like him not to answer."

"Well of course, we can accommodate that request."

"Thank you. Whomever you send, give Mr. Potter the message to call me right away."

"Absolutely, sir."

He hung up and waited, deciding that a muggle walk to Harry's room should take no longer than ten minutes tops, providing the desk clerk dropped everything right then or delegated the task to someone who would. When fifteen minutes passed without a callback, Draco snatched up his phone. It rang in his hand.

"Hello? Harry?"

"Mr. Malfoy, this is the lobby of the O'Hair Plaza, returning your call. Apologies that it took so long. I'm afraid something has happened. Our maid discovered Mr. Potter on his bathroom floor. Emergency services has been notified and he's being taken to the nearest medical facility right away."

"What? Is he hurt? Is he conscious?"

"We were able to rouse him. We saw no injuries. There's a member of the medical staff looking him over now."

Draco held the phone between both hands and looked at it. He took a deep breath. He knew the train was a bad omen, not just an accident. It was the war all over again. Could Harry not go one freaking week without getting himself injured or killed, or inflicting major drama upon them all? He couldn't take it anymore.

"Thank you, I'll be right there."

As soon as he'd hung up, Draco looked at his watch, snatched it off his arm and threw it as hard as he could against the wall. The charm hadn't worked. It hadn't notified him that Harry was in trouble, not like it had with the train. Even then, the raised alarm had not been enough to get to Harry before disaster struck. Or to send him help. And if he had appeared, something Draco was still kicking himself for not being quick enough on, he'd have gone up in flames too. Would they have found his body, mysteriously rescued among all the others, or would no one ever know he'd apparated and disintegrated in the next instance, along with seventy-one people? And what would happen to Iece? What then? At best, the watch was a stupid security blanket.

He was too disgusted with it to put it back on immediately. There were times when it had been useful, but it had certainly let him down today. He was shaking as he tried to calm himself and not overreact. His brain raced and he had to keep wiping fucking tears away to rummage through his contacts and find the information he needed. This had to be done before he saw Harry. The pain was just what he needed to light a fire under his ass. Another day was not guaranteed to him or Harry. He'd make it legal before the sun set today. His will, his finances, would all reflect his wishes.

If something happened to him and Harry, Iece needed a home. A good one. Since he couldn't turn to his own family, and no one else could be trusted, he looked at the two residents he'd have to visit before he even went to see Harry. He had to make them take her. He'd beg them if he had to. This was no time for pride. Someone was trying to kill Harry and the odds were going to win out someday. Iece couldn't go unprotected. No matter what he felt about them, Ron was an auror and his father Headed the Misuse of Muggle Artifacts. They were experts in magical security.

Today, he had to swallow his pride. He had to ask his first and second options to take Iece in if something happens to him and Harry. They were the only suitable witches he could think of, and the Universe wasn't exactly raining support and help down upon him. He'd lost touch with his friends after the trials, and he wasn't sure if they could ever look at his sister the way the other two had. It was too much to ask of anyone. But he had the right to ask the people Harry respected the most. And to hell with them, his sister was worth it and she needed looking after. Jipsy would be sent with her.

The two names on his list stared back at him. Hermione Grainger and Molly Weasley. He told himself, as he dialed the first number, that it wasn't a betrayal against his family. It wasn't a betrayal to his father. It was like the earth opening up and swallowing a mother, who uses the last of her strength to throw her child to the nearest survivor. Anyone, even his father, could forgive him for that. If something was going to happen to Harry, then likely it was going to happen to him too.

"Hello?"

Hermione's voice made him falter. He wiped his eyes and pushed forward. "This is Draco. We need to talk."

***  
Fucking goblins.

Harry didn't have to open his eyes to know that he was back in a hospital bed. But he swore, as soon as he could feel his body, he'd be on a quidditch field smacking the fuck out of bludger. He'd been recruited to play seeker, to give the crowds what they wanted, but this setback had him so furious he needed something to abuse. If he's missed another practice, somewhere, somehow, a goblin was going to pay.

Daylight seared his vision. It sliced through his sight until shapes and patterns confirmed a beige hospital room with a city horizon. Edinburgh. Shit.

Pressure in his head felt like a hangover and everything from his chest down, hurt without him moving it. He knew he shouldn't blame it on the goblins, but his visit to them inspired exactly the residue from his childhood fears that had him fighting to wake up from a nightmare all night long. Hours and hours. It shouldn't even be possible to fight that long without waking up. The battle for his life had been real. He could've died expending that much energy, in that much pain, for that duration. Since he couldn't remember who he was fighting or what they'd done to him, he blamed it on the goblins. His anger didn't know where else to go.

Yesterday, Todrick had looked at the tin, then down at his blank board. "Mr. Potter, it says here that these are indeed the remains of — "

"Of Severus Snape. I know."

"Then why would you pay for extra services? The contents were verified at the time of registration. Do you suspect a breech?"

Harry shook his head. "No. I know that this box does contain something of Snape. But not his body."

"Surely, the Ministry is better qualified to investigate such matters. Why are you making this request?"

"Because I need answers. I'm a client asking for a service. Will you help me?"

He knew he would meet with resistance. After he'd asked for the analysis that would reveal the true remains, Todrick had put down his tablet, folded his hands, and had given Harry the most sobering smile. Full of teeth. "Mr. Potter, do not waste your gold on such tests. We at Gringotts, assure you that our procedures are Ministry Compliant and such a privacy clause, one that actually hides the identity of a deceased wizard, would be illegal and of no interest to us."

It was out of Harry's lips before he could stop it. "Griphook bent the law in hopes of getting his treasure. How do I know there aren't others who would do the same?"

Todrick's eyebrows went down, pointing his displeasure. Harry quickly added, "All I'm saying is, I have a reason to request it. Don't act like I don't. Snape was a powerful wizard. It's possible that he possessed something more valuable than gold that would get his information concealed for him."

Todrick's voice was rough. "Are you accusing Gringotts of accepting bribes to aid in deceiving the entire magical world that Severus Snape is dead? That is beyond arrogant, even for you. While you are no doubt very reverent when it comes to matters of your fallen teacher and hero, we at Gringotts adhere to professionalism. We do not give in to sentiment and we will not allow you to insult our ethics."

Harry shook his head. This was getting out of hand. "Look, I don't mean to insult you, I just want a simple test."

"It's a rather complicated test and it requires Goblin magic."

"Which is why I'm doing my best to appeal to you. Do you think I wanted to come back here and open up this wound? I know I'm not welcomed here. Believe me, I don't want to show my face anymore than you want to see it. I agree, let's keep it professional. I'm just asking you to please help me put my fears to rest."

Todrick held his tongue for a moment. Something ignited behind his eyes as he produced another chair out of thin air and sat down across from Harry. It was considerably taller and gave him the height needed to look at Harry at eye level.

"Mr. Potter, you wouldn't ask for this test unless you believed your request was founded on the truth. You already believe your own suspicions. If we perform the test, we risk two things. If the truth deviates in anyway from our registry, we will have to report our findings to the Ministry. That means it will go public. That means your precious teacher will be hunted. If he has paid for a privacy clause, do you want to risk that? The other risk is Gringott's magic. When we draft life-binding contracts, especially those concerning privacy, all perfectly legal as you say, the price isn't gold. It's magic. A wizard awarded the Ministry's approval to protect himself by means of a fake demise would have to bypass all regulations by signing over a bit of his magic. That investment keeps it binding."

Harry blinked. "I didn't think that was possible." If it were, why weren't thieves stealing magic all the time?

Todrick continued. "If we were to give you the information you seek, we would in effect, betray the magic and the contract and all the oaths taken. Our magic would pay this wizard recompense and our overall potency would suffer. We never compromise that. We keep our establishment at its highest security and integrity through such magic. Were we to let it slip, our entire trust hierarchy would be compromised. We simply cannot give you the test that you've asked for."

That was absurd. He couldn't quite argue with the logic of it, but it was still a convoluted way of saying, "we have our reasons" without telling him anything helpful.

"What if I can pay with magic? What if I can pay twice as much as the loss that you would incur? I don't know how you quantify magic, but if Goblins are keeping score, then that would have to protect you. And you wouldn't even have to tell me if Snape was still alive. Just tell me who's in this box."

Todrick looked at Harry as if he'd just committed a grave error too serious for words.

Harry didn't fall for his poker face. "How 'bout it? Is my blood magic enough for you?"

Maybe the goblins had some method for taking magic from a wizard without taking his blood. But the only way Harry had ever heard of, had ever experienced, was being bled by Voldemort. That answered his question as to why thieves didn't go around stealing people's magic. It wasn't exactly a lucrative business. That was considered a dark act. Unless of course, he volunteered it. Then it was just crazy, deviant, and tantamount to wizarding suicide.

He leaned forward. "I'm Harry Potter. I killed Voldemort. My magic has to be worth something to Gringotts."

Todrick folded his arms. "Your blood would indeed be a valuable acquisition. I cannot make the decision alone. My superiors must vote on this matter. Do you understand what you're offering? You are willing to sign over one blood-pint of your magic? While your blood would be useless to those without knowledge, we goblins have the means to extract your power from it. This is a transference of magical power. It will lie within our assets and be used as we see fit. Is the answer that you seek really worth it?"

"If we're not breaking any laws, then yes."

"Wizards do not gamble with their magic for a reason. None knows where they really get it from or how much they have, let along if any can be spared. Those of you who live day to day on your magic, should not risk the loss of it in any measure."

Harry shrugged. "It's life. As long as I’m alive, I'll have my magic. It's like energy and sleep. If you exhaust yourself, you get more. Always. Isn't that how it works?"

Todrick's smile became sad. "For you. Apparently. You are young and don't believe you can ever lose your magic. That means you must have an abundance. But I assure you, all wizards cannot say the same."

"So let's do it."

Todrick tapped discreetly onto his pad for another minute or two. It occurred to Harry that he was having a discussion with his colleagues and every word between himself and Harry was being scrutinized for legal ramifications.

They were soon joined by several others. One of them questioned Harry again and explained the details of the transaction. As he spoke, another looked over the contract that was writing and amending itself according to the discussion, making sure the agreement was being translated accurately. And the third was a wizard, who brought a tray of instruments that were stocked with medical-grade supplies for preserving his blood.

Harry paid for the right to insert stipulations, overriding the goblins' ability to use it any way they wanted. Everyone paused when he asked for this service, as if they hadn't counted him smart enough to realize that he could. "My blood," he told the contract, "can only be used for good. To help someone, or to keep the bank secure." He knew his descriptive skills were lacking, but when he said good, he meant it with the same strength needed to use an effective killing curse. It was binding and he had nothing to worry about.

It was done in seconds. The medical wizard healed Harry's punctured vein and took his prized pouch with him when he left the room. It took thirty minutes more for Harry to get the answer he wanted.

As promised, Todrick stood before him with the analysis results. "Our tests have confirmed that the ashes registered under the identity of Mr. Severus Snape, do indeed belong to the former teacher. However, there is a ninety-five percent disparage between what we can trace of that wizard's magic, and what is collected in your tin. It seems the signature wand of Mr. Snape was cremated with the body and correctly identified. The wand is his, but the body is not."

Harry's heart slammed into his chest. Before he could ask, Todrick volunteered the information. "The body in question belongs to the wizard Roger Rhode, reported by his family as missing since the attack on Hogwarts. Mr. Rhode has been wanted for questioning by the Ministry since allegations preceding the war. They are still searching for him. We are obligated to inform the Ministry of this discrepancy in our records so that they can lay all further inquiries of his whereabouts to rest."

Did that still mean they had to also report Snape? Harry gripped the edge of the table and kept his voice low. "Certainly. Report it. But that doesn't disprove anything, right? We're not aurors. I mean, Snape's body is still lost. I'll give you another pint to agree with me on that. I believe it's called a privacy oath and you don't take gold for it."

After his visit to Gringotts, he went straight to the tour's lodgings in Edinbourgh. His bags were already waiting for him in his room. It was after midnight and he used the executive pass given to him weeks ago, to let himself into the underground quidditch locker rooms, and onto the field to practice. Standard brooms and equipment were locked in a cages. The league had made it illegal to use anything more powerful than a Firebolt or a Spetter Cast, the German-American equivalent. Players had to rely on their magic for hardcore speeds and maneuvers. And even though he had the field to himself, he planned on using drills he'd created with spelled balls, to keep his reflexes quick and his eyes sharp. They were no-thinking, dodge and strike tactics, since he had no say in any strategy. He focussed on being fast and accurate.

Being alone in the night sky, should've felt wonderful. Stadium lights were up, and the empty seats kilometers below, gave him a sense of expectation. The night was clear and the temperature perfect. All he wanted to do was work up a sweat until he exhausted himself. Make it grueling. Then he could say he tried to get his head back into the game. It wasn't easy, not after finding his arm and making deals with goblins. He should've known there would be bad dreams.

He ran maneuvers with the balls until he felt good about his timing. It was 1:30 am when he put the equipment away and drug himself into his shower. As he lay in bed, he could hear Draco chastising him for making such a rash decision. 'Your blood, Harry. You actually paid goblins in blood? Without legal representation of any kind?'

He didn't have to be told how stupid it was. He had just wanted that information so damned much. He knew, to his shame, he'd totally become the arrogant git he was sometimes accused of being. He had looked that goblin in the eye and bragged about killing Voldemort. But he would've said anything to know whose ashes were in that box. To hell with anyone who didn't walk in his shoes and didn't have to make the decisions he had to make. All he did was use the hand dealt to him. People use what they have. If people wanted to judge him and hold him to some stupid standard, then screw them. Who was with him when Snape died? Who else was holding Snape in his arms that night, looking into those dimming eyes? No one, that's who. He'd done his damndest and he had a right to use his magic any way he wanted to get answers for himself. If it came back to bite him, he'd just take care of that too. Now to figure out what he needed to do.

He fought such thoughts off, right up to sleep. He gave in to gut-crushing exhaustion and the inability to wake when he felt pain. Whatever had happened, whatever his body went through, not being able to stop it, was pain. He had to tell himself that because he remembered pleasure. He remembered that weird, sinking, wet feeling, like liquid opium filling up his cock and spreading up his abdomen to every limb. For a little while, it had felt great. The best, even. He hadn't felt like that since he and Draco experienced that first time together. Exciting warmth and expectation, not just arousal.

The more it had gone on, the more Harry realized he hadn't known what was happening or why, or who. Someone's hands were definitely on him, but they didn't feel like solid hands. He couldn't explain it. And the more he couldn't explain it, the more he knew it was wrong. It had felt too good, until it hadn't felt like his body anymore. His body became strange to him. A stranger's body. His body couldn't possibly have sensations like that. It didn't make sense until… Until it put him back at the Malfoy home and that man, that monster…

He had wanted to wake up. He had wanted it to stop. It hadn't. It intensified to something stronger and he was suddenly imprisoned in energy that did what it wanted to his body. He'd had no say. And after a while, he'd had no coherency. He felt like he'd even blacked out, lost sight of everything off and on, while his body operated on pure mechanics. When he woke up on the bathroom floor, he was a mess. He did remember the desperate desire to not let anyone see him that way, and to clean himself up no matter what. There'd been too much evidence of something sordid going on, and he only prayed that the hotel staff wouldn't sell the details. He couldn't help it that his body had done that.

Now, awake, he couldn't be sure what had really happened. How much of it belonged to last night, or how much of it belonged to two years ago? No matter what happened, his mind had the power to turn multiple greedy goblins into one giant Lucius Malfoy. He was stuck with that nightmare.

"Well you just can't stay out of trouble." Avi interrupted his thoughts.

Harry looked up. He tried to smile at him. His heart wasn't in it. "I can't stay here."

"Has anyone explained to you what happened? Harry, I'm sorry, this is too serious to let you go so quickly. You just got here."

"I have practice in two hours. I can't miss it a second time."

"Your teammates will understand."

"I signed a commitment. I can't let them down."

"You've had a stroke, Harry."

The next words out of Harry's mouth never made it.

Avi held up his hands. "Don't panic. I don’t mean to alarm you. As severe as that diagnosis is, as serious, your body is recuperating at an incredible rate. Your magic really is something."

Harry's mouth hung open. "A stroke?"

"I know, you probably think you're too young and too healthy. But it is related to the existing damage I've already seen in your nervous system. When they admitted you," he looked at his notes, "a Docter Covington performed the diagnostics. My findings support his. Sometime over in the morning, you experienced broken blood vessels in the frontal and temporal lobes of your brain. He didn't expect you to wake up, not without considerable motor loss. But we've been monitoring you and every thirty minutes your body restructures five percent of the tissue damage. This is extremely positive."

"I had a stroke?"

"I think you're going to be fine. This would've incapacitated or even killed a non-magical person. I have a theory that whoever restored your body after the train incident, also gave you impeccable regenerative abilities."

He tried to listen to the rest, but his mind wasn't having it. When Avi talked about convulsions and temporal illusions as his brain hemorrhaged, Harry felt his eyes well up. He could actually have a nightmare so bad that his body had a stroke? He risked being paralyzed or even crippled because he couldn't handle what was done to him and it was all catching up? Had the goblins stressed him out that much?

"We have to keep you for observation. We've never seen anyone recover this quickly, but there are still concerns. Just play it safe and be a good patient for at least another forty-eight hours. We've sent word to Draco. He's on his way --"

"I can't take another hospital. Or lying flat on my back. Just let me attend practice. You can monitor me from my hotel room, right? You can trace my vitals and what-not. If I pass out, you'll know it. I'm becoming a liability for this tour."

Instead of reprimanding him, Avi looked at him squarely. He reached into his back pocket and removed a rolled up paper. He flattened it and placed it on Harry's lap.

On the cover of The Daily Prophet, a blurred photo showed Harry sprawled in his T-shirt and shorts across black and white tiles. His head lay wedged between the toilet and the bathtub. The caption read, Harry Collapses! In it, badged hotel staff watched as ambulatory crew fitted him with a breathing mask and checked him over.

"That edition is two hours old. It hit the stands faster than news of Voldemort's death. Your team is not expecting you to show up for practice. Trust me."

The shock of seeing himself displayed in such an undignified manner, was too much to digest. Rage smoldered, then ignited behind his eyes. His stomach hardened into concrete and it sank deeper into his bowels.

"Now Harry, I'm only showing you that because you need to take treatment seriously. This is not a fly-by recovery. Stay here and let us take proper care of you. You don't have to prove yourself to your teammates, to the Ministry, or to anyone. You have a little girl who needs you to be as healthy as you can be. This is not the time to take up any challenges."

Avi was right, but the blow to Harry's pride kept him reeling far beyond Avi's reach.

"What I will do, is give you something to help you settle. To make it easier to stay in bed. I imagine you must have all kinds of pressures contributing to your lack of rest."

Harry said nothing. He wished he could say that he couldn't believe a reputable paper would run such tabloid melodrama, but he was too angry to manage that. Only he knew what his body had gone through, and to have it plastered in full color for the whole world to gawk at, was the same as being at Lucius' mercy that horrible night two years ago. It put him back in that space. He swore, he'd never let anything make him feel that helpless again.

The eyes he turned to Avi, were the eyes of a legendary eleven year-old boy. "It's the nightmares. They'll come back. If you make sure I can sleep without dreaming, I should be able to rest. Even when you release me, I'll need the strongest you've got."

Avi's smile seemed to say, if this is what keeps you in bed, then done. "I'll write you that prescription right now. When you get out of here, you can't drink while taking it and we'll have to step you off of it in a few months. But we'll get you through this."  
Harry nodded. He let Avi check him over and waited for the mediwizard to make good on his promise. The potion he prescribed came in the form of a dark green pill. He let Avi witness him taking it and settled back onto his pillow. By the time anyone came to check on him again, his bed was empty.

Scrubs were easy enough to steal. He wasn't a prisoner and his legs could still carry him downstairs to a taxi. He didn’t have the strength to apparate or to hide his appearance. So what if the paper got another assaulting shot of him looking like an overdosed cliché. He already felt there was nothing else for his pride to lose. He could sue, but that would only feed the frenzy that wanted more photos like that. At the front desk, he got strange looks and actually had to threaten to walk out if the nurse attempted to call his doctor and get permission again. "I had a stroke, I still have free will." He checked himself out and made his way to the quidditch field. He had a commitment to keep.

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Please review! :-)

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A/N:  Harry's stroke is a direct result from events in [Evening's Freedom](https://archiveofourown.org/works/17911508). It has nothing to do with goblins. I'm creating a bit of a puzzle here and some readers need help.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: SPOILER!!: If I get my way, this is going to be a long story, so I can't get into the hurry I was in with the other Unbearable stories. If you're taking this journey with me, you can handle this spoiler and you deserve some information. If you don't want to know what's going on beneath the words, don't read this. 
> 
> The relationships in this story are going to be turned on their heads for a while, but that's only because Harry and Draco have a lot of healing to do. I see them as being committed, but they can't really meet each other in a stable way until some side roads and unfinished business is taken care of. Iece is their center of gravity right now. Harry and Draco are a dedicated couple, whether that's clear to them or not. But they are absolutely reckless in their approach to heal the sexual relationship that Lucius stunted. Snape will actually, through no conscious effort, be the one to inspire their healing as Harry is inspired to heal him. Ash is caught in the middle of it because Snape would be totally invisible behind the scenes if it weren't for him. I don't think we'll hear Snape's viewpoint again until Harry forces it from him.


	10. Malfoy Manners

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Draco is tired of being nice.

***THIS IS NOT A NEW CHAPTER. THERE WILL BE A NEW ONE TODAY, THOUGH.***

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To the woman monitoring security scans at Schiphol, the world had just split into two parts. There were, and had always been, the average milieu of anxious, nondescript travelers who registered nothing more than acknowledgement that they existed on her radar. Then there was that guy, with the silver-white hair and the kid. The most obvious thing about him, his hair, got stares from everyone, but it was more than that. Might've been his expensive suit. She didn't know what rich people wore, but if she had to describe it, it looked like liquid black ink had been made into a soft, yet shape-forming fabric and measured to fit this man's slender body perfectly. It was a nice body. It looked like an entire wardrobe crew must've worked on his look to achieve the most striking effect possible. He appealed to her voyeuristic appreciation of people because she felt like she was watching a movie when she looked at him. He looked like the reason she'd left the US, to experience delights she simply couldn't otherwise. Europeans had a different mindset that was sometimes charming and always interesting. Illinois was home, but her need for more, had positioned her a world away.

It took a lot to impress Hattie Mayfield, who left eleven years of service behind her at JFK, because she wanted something new and fresh, and unidentified. Having grown up in Chicago, she wasn't impressed by American bravado. She didn't know when she'd have the need to speak German or French, but she learned both in college, solidifying herself as the odd sheep in the family, and an outcast among the neighborhood friends she grew up with. It only made sense that she'd try a taste of Europe when the opportunity came. It only made sense that her husband would be German, causing everyone back home to shake their heads in culture shock.

Perhaps that's why the young man stood out to her. She was the darkest person in her daily environment, and had learned to thrive being different from the norm in a new culture. He looked to be her opposite. Positively one of the whitest people she'd ever seen, and not blending in, even here. Genetics were amazing. And once she'd seen the alarm on his face, when asked to put the child down for his scan, she couldn't stop watching him. He'd survived the five seconds of not holding the little girl, then sweeping her up, only to be told he had to take her through. He recovered his watch and rings, and took a seat on the other side of the barrier. Hattie wanted to tell him that he could rent a stroller around the corner, but the way he pressed the child to his chest, as if shaken, told her that would've been tantamount to another security assault. Royals. She saw them all the time, dressed incognito. Slumming it, getting their kicks under the tabloid radar. She didn't know what blue-blooded tree this young man had fallen from, but he was not used to navigating his way through an airport with common folk. She didn't hold it against him. Poor dear. That's what happened when everything was done for you.

She spoke into her radio. "Michael. Two o'clock your way. Prettiest white boy I've ever seen."

Michael's reply was delayed. "Oh, honey. That's too much maintenance for me. But I am going to take a picture. Proof, they really do exist."

"You think that baby's his?"

"She's his. Definitely family. But he's so fucking young. Tragic. I'm glad I came to work today."

***

Before getting on the plane, Draco had performed breathing exercises to temper his mood and to extend his patience with the world outside of his estate. Inside, he could control everything from the temperature to the tranquil, museum quality of beauty, and any activity that took place upon the property. But in the public world, he controlled nothing but his composure, and that meant every uncertainty was a potential threat to his order. He controlled what he could. Tapping each door he opened three times, wasn't the compulsive disorder someone might've branded him with. It was a spell, intended to work in concert with all the others keeping himself and his sister safe. It got him through the flight and the process of getting a rental car. There'd been a time when an assistant would've seen to all the mundane details, but life with Harry had made him more self-reliant. It was quite handy when he had to drop everything and rethink his plans, like now. He didn't have time to wait on anyone else to get it right for him.

This was not something Jipsy could help him with. He'd given Iece a little snack bag of sliced apples, her toy 'pippo', and they were off. Because she could not say 'pillow', pippo was her name for a plump sachet-like pouch that fastened around her wrist to keep her from losing it. Sometimes she could pull small toys out of it. Sometimes it played music and sang to her, encouraging her to clap her hands to a preschool jingle. Sometimes, when it turned a certain color, and she named the color, it opened and tossed a spray of iridescent bubbles into the air. Other times, it was just a tiny pillow that she rubbed against her cheek until it lulled her to sleep. Nonmagics only ever saw the satin yellow pillow, and smiled, amused at how her tiny imagination got so much joy out of interacting with it.

Hermione's street was as neatly lined and partitioned as the muggle sensibilities that had built it. The trees were older than one normally saw in suburban neighborhoods. Their wide trunks grew up through cobbled stones that decorated their bases at each corner. They were spaced between stretches of sensible, wrought iron fences in front of each house. Two, to a bus stop, provided weatherproof canopy as well as old charm to a grid of brown brick townhouses. As an unusual amount of sun created long shadows over her quiet street, Draco thought it didn't look like such a bad place. Although, his stomach knotted at the sight of a perfectly white steeple stretching further down, to the end of her street. He stopped the car, then made himself drive on. People with magic didn't get caught in those trappings anymore. Religious people weren't allowed to harm witches and wizards anymore, but that didn't mean it didn't happen. He got it. Churches were charming and all, they gave nonmagics comfort, but she wouldn't do that to Iece, would she? She'd have to fucking swear to it.

He glanced into the rearview mirror and saw Iece's head lulled on her shoulder in slumber. He told himself this was the right thing to do. It was just a precaution, not a death sentence.

When Draco pulled up behind Hermione's Hundai, he knew the first question he'd have to answer from her. By the time he'd finished with the solicitor and his new legal documents, it had been easy enough to floo to Harry's bedside, only to find him gone. Harry had checked himself out of the hospital. If that was the case, how bad could it be? Doctor Rankar insisted that he tried to get him to stay, and filled Draco in on his unusual recovery. Fuming, Draco suspected that Harry would be headed for quidditch practice as if nothing had happened. He got hold of the team's captain through Ministry Relations and insisted that Harry wasn't well. He shouldn't be allowed to practice. At a crossroads, he decided to catch up to Harry later and get his meeting with Hermione over with. For that, he needed the most compelling evidence he could arm himself with, to make his case. He'd had Jipsy pack an overnight bag and he took Iece with him to the Granger house.

They had to fly out to London. It was only a one-hour flight, but enough of an inconvenience to make Draco consider investing in a private plane. He didn't mind crying babies and knees kicking his seat as much as he minded the long queues, not having enough leg room, and rude travelers, whom he caught staring at himself and Iece every time he looked up. Exactly three times, curious onlookers asked him if she was his daughter. He'd said yes each time. It might as well be true. He caught a teenage girl sneaking a photo. What the hell did he look like to them? A private plane was looking more and more attractive. He wouldn't require it often, but when he did, it would be essential for comfortable travel.

He shut the car off and sighed. He hated waking her up when she was sleeping so well. He unfastened her and shifted her into his arms. "It's okay," he whispered when she whined at the disturbance. He made it up three steps. Hermione's door flew open before he could take another.

"Oh my god, Draco! I thought you were coming by floo. Why on earth did you drive?"

"Because I wanted to bring her. She can't travel by magic right now." She needed to know that.

The knit in her brow prompted him to add, "I'll explain. Are you alone?" Like you promised.

She blinked back her retort. "Of course. Come in."

She and Ron Weasley lived together, but had not as yet set a date for marriage. The situation suited them, apparently. Draco wasn't close enough to them to know or care about what they were waiting on. It must've had something to do with her career. She taught muggle classes for the Ministry, but was aggressively pursuing a law degree to solicit on behalf of magics and nonmagics alike. Fucking over achiever. Couldn't love herself unless she has all the awards and status. And people accused _his_ family of clutching status symbols. Education could also be just another way of saying 'Look how superior I am.'

Fine, whatever. She wasn't perfect, but she was smart and caring, and gave that to her projects. The best that he could hope for, was that she'd let Iece become one of her projects.

But he'd have to have a different discussion with Ron, depending on Hermione's answer. Only Hermione's name, and Mrs. Weasley's, were going to be on the papers. Harry's trust of his friends carried weight, but if Ron had it in him to commit to such a level of obligation, he'd have to prove it. And if he didn't, Hermione was the one with the brains and the discipline. Single mothers with a lot less managed to raise children, though Draco didn't know how. He'd seen it, though, on the run with Harry. Muggle television and communities astonished him with how people could thrive with little-to-nothing, generation after generation. His parents would not have been able to stomach it, but you had to give it to them. They were hardy without magic. Surely, the fortune that would go with Iece, would soften the hardship he was asking of Hermione. He trusted her that much, and in some circles, that was better than liking her.

It wasn't so much as Draco not liking Ron - he didn't like Hermione any better. Respected her mental adroitness, even appreciated her once or twice, but 'like' had to be natural, and it simply wasn't there. They'd never achieved that level of comfort with each other, not even with Harry being their common ground. After seven years of rivalry, then the war, there'd been no emotional space for it. There was still too much to run from. No need to force it. This was love and business, not about waiting for conditions to be perfect in the world. He wasn't ashamed to ask for help on behalf of his sister. If that know-it-all witch had the lunacy to campaign to free all elves, she could make sure a little girl was fed, clothed, and spoken to kindly every day. That's all she had to do, and he'd leave her the money to do it with. Iece's magic would do the rest.

The problem he had with Ron was more, even going on three years, that the git lacked maturity levels that would make Draco consider asking him to be a part of the commitment. And he was sure that meant Ron wouldn't want to have anything to do with it. Hermione had proven that she couldn't stand to see anything mistreated. She wouldn't let Ron take out any grievances on his sister. So far, she'd shown she wasn't the type to put romantic ideals over responsibilities. She could do better than Ron, and that Weasley had to be on to it. She was the type to send him packing if he became unreasonable. Thank god.

In her living room, he felt his reluctance to put his sister down. Hermione's space was exactly what one would expect. Tons of family photos. Cheap paintings of sunrises and animals. The tiny sitting room and dining area were all the same room, partitioned by shelves and books. Books and plants filled every vertical flat surface, fully integrating home and professional life, as if one could not be separated from the other. Pale, laminate floors, gave the place a sleek, modern quality and crisp assurance of cleanliness. But thick, frayed throw rugs, hinted of a Weasley's homemade influence, that Hermione must've been quite at home with.

Her choice of décor, was an antique couch with carved framework. It ran to a length no longer manufactured in this day and age, and could probably seat one-quarter of the Weasely household. Its orange, crush-velvet cushions would've been too much if it wasn't for the gladiolus-printed throw pillows and accent curtains taming the entire tone of the room to something that resembled peach and amber. Sunlight filtering through the curtains helped to subdue the look. The room smelled of scented oil and reminded Draco of someone too sensible to know how to put "looks" together. Exactly like Hermione. He suspected she had an office in the house. Did she have enough room here to raise a child, with an elf?

While she rummaged in the kitchen, he gave into the desire to sit. Even a one-hour flight, packed enough bother and urgency behind it, to make his body feel all his desperation catching up with him. Iece slowly opened her eyes and took in her surroundings. She was only wearing one shoe and Draco knew she must've lost it between the car and the porch. If he didn't hurry up and get it back on, the other one, and socks, were going to end up on the floor. Hermione swept back into the room carrying a tray. He'd given her Iece's sippy cup from her sachet. When she'd offered a beverage, he held it out. "Juice, if you have it. I'll take tea."

"Now what's all this about not being able to floo with her?"

He sighed, planning on a long discussion. She already knew why he was there. Now she just had to be convinced that he was serious. Her look of grave amazement never left her face for the first forty-five minutes she listened to him.

"I wouldn't ask you this unless I had no other choice. And by the way, you were my first choice."

He thought her shoulders relaxed a bit, but he wasn't sure. "You and I both know that disaster follows Harry. It's like he's made for it. If I'm going to continue supporting him, being with him, I've got to make safer arrangements for her. Don't look at me like that. You don't know what it's like to make this decision. It's not like I'm leaving her on somebody's bloody doorstep."

She pulled in her bottom lip. "I'm not judging you. I admire you for looking out for her. I just can't believe we've come to this, you and I. It's a bit overwhelming, really."

"I know, and a huge impact on your life. Especially your relationship. I don't imagine Weasley is going to take kindly to the idea."

Her narrow shoulders lifted. "You'd be surprised. He loves children. He wants one more than anything."

"He wants his own."

"He has a big heart."

"Irrelevant. I'm putting my trust in you."

"It's hardly irrelevant. We make decisions together."

"He can't make a decision about something that's going to involve you more than it involves anybody. You don't let people make those decisions for you. That's another reason I chose you. You'll never let anyone think for you."

She looked at him squarely. "Or manipulate my emotions."

"If I thought you were that easy, we wouldn't be having this discussion. I'm laying everything I have on the table. You're emotional and reasonable at the same time. I'm giving you logic as well as honesty. I'll do whatever it takes to reassure you. You will also be financially compensated. I know this isn't about money, but you'll need help, and you'll have it. I'll make sure that you never have to worry about money."

She shook her head, distress slowed down her words. "I don't know, Draco. If anything ever happened to you and Harry, of course I'd step in and make sure she got a good home. But to volunteer myself, while both of you are perfectly well, that's a leap of tremendous faith and I'm not sure I have it in myself…"

He sat his tea down. "Stop. Do not make a decision right now. Never make a decision until you've slept on it. Lived with it. I'm asking you like this to prove to you how serious I am. I didn't have to come here. I could've done everything through lawyers. Hell, I could've willed her to you. But I want your answer after you've fully considered what it would mean for you. She has no one."

Hermione's eyes became glossy. "She has relatives. Aunts and uncles."

"I don't trust anyone in my family to take her. My father would only trick them out of custody. And even if I could convince Harry's family to take her, I'm reminded that they raised him in a cupboard, and would be even easier targets as muggles, for my father to slip away with her."

"She's not yours to will away. You haven't even discussed this with Harry."

"When I do, I have to be sure I have your answer. He has to know that I'm so serious about this, that I visited you. On my own. My magic and Harry's, register at the level of a civil marriage. Barely, but that's why our elf, Jipsy, was able to commit to both of us as a household. We're not married technically, but magically, our life is seen as a union. I can't adopt her without admitting that she's not mine. And my father won't relinquish his rights, even though no legal system would give him custody. He can still hold onto the fact that he's her father, just to keep me from adopting her. Being recognized as Harry's household, grants me relative guardianship."

"Oh, my god. Why don't you two just get married? If Harry signed a Parental Measure establishing you as a primary parent, the law would have to recognize three parental interests, not two."

Draco ran a hand down his face and squeezed his temples. "Because Harry isn't ready for that. You should've seen him freak out when I asked for a house elf. Fucking marriage still means something to him. And even if we did, that still leaves the question of what happens to his daughter if he and I go missing?"

"And that still leaves the question, how are you going to allocate custody when you have no legal right to her as long as her real father is alive? I could be saying 'yes' to a devastated heart if I fully expect she'll be mine and I watch her go to him."

"Listen to me. My father will never get custody of her. If anything happens to me and Harry, it's already fixed that what happened that night will be fully disclosed to the judicial authorities involved. They'll put her in foster care before they give her to that man."

Hermione's wilted silence gave him a second to grab Iece and bring her back to him. While talking, she'd roused and squirmed two cushions away, giggling at her newfound freedom. Her white shoe was sticking out between the cushions and she'd pulled both socks triumphantly from her wriggling toes. This won wry approval from Hermione's wounded smile, making Iece go pink and bashful from the attention.

Their discussion came back around to the issue of the floo.

Draco spoke as if he were giving her instructions on how to take care of plants. "If she keeps rubbing her eyes, say an hour after she's awakened, that means she isn't well enough to floo and you can't apparate with her. She'll get sick. It's only symptomatic for a day or two, then she's fine. But you have to pay attention to her. She can't tell you what's wrong with her."

"Symptomatic of what?"

"Her magic. That's all I can tell you until you agree."

"Is she sickly? Is there a health issue I should know about?"

"No, she's perfectly healthy. She's just extremely sensitive to movement and vibration, you might say, at certain times. Rather like humans adapting to vampirism. Until the change is complete, they get migraines from the light. But after the final phase, some of them can travel in daylight just fine. I have to know that you can handle her needs. They might be unusual. Harry and I were told that her blood would introduce new magic, and that it's unpredictable. We're in the dark, and I have to know that if anything happens, you could accept her in spite of the uncertainty."

Iece had fought her way off of Draco's lap again, and squealed in delight when her bare toes touched the floor. Hermione gasped to see the child stagger to the arrangements of flowers and a crystal collection on her coffee table. "Oh, I forgot that she's walking. Every time The Prophet has a picture, you're usually holding her. I didn't think she could walk."

Draco didn't know how he felt about that. "She walks."

"Speaking of, how on earth did you leave Harry? When Ron saw the photo this morning, we tried to go see him, but they said he'd already gone. He left word with no one. You hadn't cancelled our meeting, so I knew I'd get the story from you when you popped in. Where is he?"

"I haven't seen Harry today. What picture? When they told me he'd checked himself out, I was too disgusted. If he's well enough to walk out, he doesn't need me fussing over him. When I heard there was even more drama, my primary concern became to take care of my sister. That meant choosing to see you over tracking his arse down."

"Oh, so you don't know?"

"Know what? Doctor Rankar says he had a stroke, but he's recovered like crazy."

"A stroke? That's highly unusual." Her tone said she wasn't buying it. She reached behind her, producing the newspaper photo.

With recognition of Harry's prone body, Draco felt himself turn to stone. Muscles in his chest clamped around his heart and wouldn't let his lungs move. He had to will himself to breathe. It was like one of those dreams where you think you're peeing, but you have to ask yourself if it's real. Spreading liquid warmth meant trouble. It meant humiliation in front of classmates that wasn't survivable.

It was bad enough that someone had obviously taken the photo with a subpar, hidden camera, possibly peeking from their shirt. Harry looked so helpless and neglected. The Prophet had the audacity to pixilate the image at the crotch of Harry's shorts, implying there was something inappropriately visible, and ensuring the sales of lots more newspapers. It was bad enough that paramedics deemed it necessary to expose intimate trails of dark hair and too much pelvis. No one had been there to protect Harry, to make sure images like this didn't happen.

"How dare they!"

He didn't bother reading the article. When he looked back at Hermione, he saw fear in her eyes. Good. That meant there was no better time than the present. His boiling adrenaline told him so.

"This will not be tolerated." He stood.

"Draco."

"Do you mind keeping an eye on her? For exactly twenty seconds. That's all the time I need to address this unprofessional, illegal abuse of journalistic right to information."

"Calm down. He's my friend too, and it's not illegal."

"Then it should be. He's in his fucking underwear, unconscious. I'm certain he didn't sign a release for this."

"It was a newsworthy event of a major personality."

"It's exploitation of an unconscious celebrity."

"It's wrong, but it's not illegal. Don't go off half-cocked."

"I cannot sit here and let one second of acceptance, of this treatment of him, go by. Don't worry, I know exactly where I’m going to go and what I'm going to do. If this shit isn't illegal, it will be by the time I'm done with these people."

"Draco…"

"Can she stay here?"

"Of course. I'd rather you leave her with me for the night and go calm yourself, than do whatever ungodly thing you're about to do."

He looked at Iece, who was busy cracking Hermione's crystals against each other, then back at Hermione. "Twenty seconds."

Exasperation left her lips tight. "Be careful. That's more than enough time for a Malfoy to do a lot of damage."

He should've been insulted, but somewhere behind is anger, he thrilled to her acknowledgement of what he brought to a room. He took the newspaper with him.

He burst into the plaza unannounced. It was a common stop on Ministry-sponsored programs. What he had not anticipated, was the lobby bustling with the after effects of that day's top story. News of Harry's collapse brought out treasure trolls and gossip-hunger among clientele wealthy enough to book a room behind the story. The lobby was more crowded than usual and still swarming with reporters looking to enhance the story. Draco was reminded that Harry's room was still unprotected and made a note to staff it with security as soon as possible, until Harry could be relocated. But first he had a few choice words to share with the manager of the hotel.

His open apparation tripped the hotel wards. If there were nonmagics in the lobby, they were distracted by the fire alarm directing them to the nearest exits. To those with magic, the piercing ring was only a low, monotonous tone that warned the use of hidden magic in the presence of muggles. Anyone traveling with a muggle would have to make a choice to react to the false alarm, or to watch the floorshow unfold.

Draco knew perfectly well that his appearance magnetized the eyes of every witch and wizard in the room. Locked onto him, he pulled every stare with him as he strode across the floor to the counter. The drone of conversation dropped and receded altogether as he approached the courtesy desk. He stopped three feet from it and took out his wand as a deterrent to anyone watching. There was no friendliness in his tone when he said, "Please, I would like to speak to the manager."

The young lady behind the counter, wearing a silk-vested uniform and a name tag, Glenna, Customer Service, fixed her mouth to apologize. "I'm sorry, is there a problem?"

Draco refused to accept her ignorance. She took a step back when he said nothing. Behind her, a senior male sporting a graying ponytail, tapped her shoulder and relieved her. "Mr. Malfoy is a regular guest, Glenna. Allow me." His tag identified him as Quentin, Lobby Manager. "What can I help you with, Mr. Malfoy? May I say first, that no one regrets this morning's events more than myself. Anything less than an excellent stay, is a blight on our superb record and we hope to make it up to you and Mr. Potter."

"Too late for that. That should've been your first response to this." Draco held up the newspaper. "I'll be brief. I'm only hear to give you a fair warning." He didn't have to raise his voice. Nothing else could be heard in the room as onlookers strained to listen. "Because of this, I will buy this place and fire everyone in here. If you and your people can't run a decent hotel for respectable witches and wizards, then I'll see to it that you don't run one at all."

It was satisfying to see the man lose his color. That meant he was listening and this was not a waste of time. The message would reach those unseen faces, of whom this man represented, whether he knew it or not. Don't climb the ladder if you can't take heights.

Draco announced to the reporters behind him. "Don't misquote me. I'll sue if you get one word wrong."  
He kept his eyes on the manager, but spoke for the benefit of everyone in the room. "From the person who took this picture, to the those who published it, to everyone who let it happen. I will have your jobs. I will investigate. This man was helpless and needed your assistance. Just because he's famous, you thought it was okay to expose him at his most vulnerable. Is this the kind of back stabbing treatment patrons can expect here? Is getting screwed over included in the €2000 suite? People who sleep under this roof, put a certain trust in your staff and your professionalism. We pay extra for it. When Diane Whittaker talked my great grandmother into investing in her chain of restaurants and hotels, she sold the vision as one where witches and wizards could feel safe traveling among nonmagics.

"My mother still has a seat on the Board of Directors. Diane's granddaughter, and Executive Manager, Rosalind Koche, still takes her owls. The CEO, Benedict Brandon, was recently awarded Britain's Global Excellence in thirty years of quality and service. That's a muggle award. And it stands on the shoulders of witches and wizards who prosper without being seen, thanks to establishments like this. Nobody wants to see that kind of trust and commerce shot to hell because someone thought it was a good idea to kick a wizard flat on his back."

Quentin raised his hands. "With all due respect, Mr. Malfoy. No one here published that regrettable image. We are not responsible for it. No one here authorized it."

"Yet someone here took it. And no one, here, stopped it. I suggest, Quentin, that you step up your security measures and put your guests' safety and privacy first. This image sends two messages to the magical public. When news spreads that this hotel is subject to invasion of privacy, you'll wish you'd tackled the photographer to the ground and beat the hell out of him before he destroyed the plaza's reputation."

Quentin was sweating, but he stood his ground. "And The Prophet? Will they not have to answer for an act that only they could control? While you're so busy dealing out retribution, they should be first on your list, not us. We are not your enemy, Mr. Malfoy."

"No, you're not. My enemies know better. As for The Profit, that rag will either be out of business or paying the tuition of real journalism students by way of compensation, before the year is out."

He shook the picture. "I’m going to find out who was involved in this. I'll be back for your jobs." He made of point of looking everyone directly into their eyes, sweeping his head to get the entire lobby.

The last thing he saw, were the open-mouthed expressions silently staring back at him. The last thing he heard, was the burst of a camera flash, as it caught him a split-second before apparating. That edition of The Prophet, with him looking just like his father as his eyes scornfully raked over those who presented a challenge to him, would go on to sell more copies in a shorter time than Harry's cover edition.

The wizarding world sensed that something was happening and it went deeper than damaged pride. If a humbled serpent could be roused to show venomous fangs, kept hidden after his father's downfall, and what a spectacular sight it was, then something was stirring. Something was happening. And dramatic pictures like Draco's and Harry's, were the only clues.

 

 Note: Part 6, [Evening's Freedom](https://archiveofourown.org/works/17911508), will become chapter 8, as well as remain a one-shot. Readers are missing vital information without it and coming to the wrong conclusions after, Morning After. I didn't realize how much it needed to be a part of the narrative. I'm waiting until the next chapter is ready because readers will think there is a new chapter when I insert it. Thank you.

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Thank you all SO MUCH for the kudos and comments. It gives me fuel and fun to know you're enjoying yourselves!

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**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Reminder: This is renegade writing. There is no beta. There is no canon. There is only selfish fun or this story could not exist. It's worked for me so far.


	11. Team Trials

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harry has to prove himself.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for being patient with me. I’m going through life adjustments and a crashed computer. The good news is that I have a new computer. The next news is, I’m still adjusting to a new way of life. But it’s all good. This is the kind of “endurance” challenge that made me hurry and finish the other fics. As this story welled up inside of me, I knew it was too good to pass up, no matter how long it takes to write. I just hate to leave readers hanging. I can’t wait to show you what I see… I’ve been trying to show you why Ash thinks he has the right to ask Severus out on a date, but Draco and Harry insist their issues come first. Delicious!

The last thing the thirty-two people, scattered on the quidditch field, expected to see was a bespectacled, slight young man with an excellent athletic stride and form walking towards them. Never mind the spiky, erratic look in his eyes, or the fact that he'd obviously escaped from a hospital, bed hair and all. His famous smile was no where to be seen. It was his eyebrows that framed his humorless determination as he crossed the field towards them. In photos, the glasses provided a buffer. But in real life, his eyebrows were seriously out of control and hinted of just a little instability from unsuspected levels of testosterone. He walked, not in public persona mode, but in armor mode. He expected to have to defend himself. With trains, goblins, and dismembered parts jabbing at his concentration, screaming that Snape was still alive, those watching didn't realize they were seeing a fight to concentrate on doing what he was there to do. If he came across as a little grim and too serious, that would keep them out of his face until he got himself sorted. And it was better to be taken too seriously than not seriously at all.

He had spit out Rankar’s pill, but worried that it’s bitterness had been in his mouth long enough to effect his playing. Spit it out, but kept it for later.

Only fifteen onlookers were the team and captain. The team was comprised of seven star players and counter players for backup and practice. They watched his approach, helpless to find words for the sight of him. The rest were agents, assistants, spouses and girlfriends of the team. Only two journalists had been allowed to cover the event.

Harry's jeans still had the price tag on them. He'd had to stop for shoes. The hospital slippers were incompatible with his need to tear up the pavement. He grabbed pants and sneakers at the same store and left the old ones on the floor of the bathroom stall. He'd missed the hospital bracelet altogether, and walked up to the team captain still wearing it.

Flushed, he strained to get his point across before any of them could refuse his presence. "I'm sorry I'm late. Please don't ask me to leave. I know you've all seen the papers. This practice is the only thing that's keeping me sane right now. Politics aside, let's just play."

Their stunned silence gave him a moment to catch his breath. He tried to make eye contact with all of them, but especially the woman he knew to be in charge, Abria Stepanov, from the Republic of Russia.

What passed for a greeting of a smile, was filled with uneasiness. She headed him off, her dialect turning English into harsh and bold sounds. "I can't let you practice. You're not well." She stood two inches taller than him and fifteen pounds heavier. It gave her a stout frame and cushioned her plump face, making her ultra feminine lips extra full. She wore blue braids in the front of her dark hair, pinned back above pierced eyebrows. Hands on her hips displayed her stance. She wasn't going soft on him just because he wanted her to.

Harry aimed all desperate appeal to her. "Do not make a decision based on the media. I'm here. I'm well. If you must, get a medic out here to confirm it. But don't assume that anything you've read in the paper justifies making a professional decision when I'm standing before you ready to go."

She narrowed her eyes and shook her head. He had a point, but she didn't tell him that the Minister had been by as well, and recommended that she not let Harry play. Her assistant had also gotten the message from Draco Malfoy to keep Harry from playing. She'd been prepared to turn him away, but they were all under contractual sponsorship and things could go nasty if she violated his right to participate without proof of his incapacity. "Fair enough, Harry. I'll have the team specialist look you over. If he says you're out, you're out. Not for the season, just till next practice."

"Fine." It wasn't, but he wasn't about to risk his place on the team by arguing with her. On the ride over, he reminded himself that all he had to do was keep his head down, cooperate with the team, and stay out of trouble. Negative press was bad enough, he didn't need to have to defend himself to teammates who were committed to a cause that was getting families out of shelters and into real homes. He would not be accused of letting his fame eclipse his purpose. Celebrity Quidditch was supposed to be a fun way to raise money and to rebuild burned cultural bridges. He wasn't going to let any darkness in his life poison that intent.

After a tense moment, during which he felt like an arse for letting his new teammates stare at him without an introduction, Abria motioned, "Come with me."

He'd received a roster of his teammates and their background qualifications months ago. They all knew each others profiles, but the first practice was the first time most of them had met in person, and Harry had missed that meeting altogether. Abria's back was to him as she pulled out her phone and argued with someone about requiring a mediwizard. She led him to the locker rooms and motioned to the gear available to him, should he pass his physical exam. The mediwizard showed up fast.

It was torture holding still for him and summoning the patience not to rush the procedure. Abria must've made her wish for the fastest verification known. The wizard had him dressed and deemed fit for practice in twenty minutes. Harry returned to the field, broom in hand and suited up. His teammates were already in the air, practicing above him, when he approached Abria. She blew her whistle. Everyone in the sky turned, mid-flight, to the sound of it and landed in a group around her.

This was the part Harry dreaded, but knew it had to be gotten over with. When everyone was in earshot, she introduced him without preamble. He was grateful for the no frills, "Okay folks, this is your teammate, Harry Potter. He's been cleared to practice with us today."

What he didn't expect was the round of applause this announcement got. It brought his eyes up from the their shoes. Eight men, six women, including the coach, gave him relieved smiles along with solid, hand-slapping appreciation. He heard the words, "Awesome to meet you, Mr. Potter." His own relief stunned him.

"Call me Harry." He shook hands with each of them. He'd meant to play it hard, as if any resentment encountered from them, would only slide off indifferent shoulders. But acceptance felt good. Too good not to give in. As each one pumped his hand, he was reminded that this wasn't school anymore. Most of them were professional players, not immature kids who would hold his difficulties against him. They were famous in their own rights, in the quidditch industry, and maybe that's why they forgave him so easily.

Abria got to the point. "The thing is, Harry, we've called in a substitute. Your place on the team is secure, but your absence has allowed us to test for strong backup. We did a bracket, with Greg and Jasper coming in the strongest seekers. I've tested every member against the others to see what kind of talent I'm working with and how compatible you all are. I know this is just supposed to be for fun, but I like winning and this is a career move for some of us. So how 'bout running beater, keeper, and seeker against the most qualified here, just to make sure we've positioned you to our greatest advantage?"

He nodded. "That's fine." She could've told him he'd have to play all three positions simultaneously, blindfolded, and he would've agreed. After hospitals and finding pieces of himself, this was an opportunity to dive back into something close to what he knew. His reputation had escorted him past formal tryouts, even though he’d volunteered to do so after the news of making the team bolstered a shit storm of protests from league officials and serious quidditch fans. Sponsorship for the matches argued that the goal was charity, not sportsmanship, and his presence was there to raise money, not win games. Since the team had nothing to do with the professional industry, Harry’s fame and school reputation were ruled as valid criteria for his selection. The argument had made him feel as if he’d bought his way onto the team, and he was eager to put fears of his incompetency to rest.

Everyone took to their brooms. They saw him transform. Once in the air, Harry had something to prove and his expression lost the open appeal of someone eager to belong. It grew tight with concentration as he filtered out everything that had nothing to do with mowing down the counter team’s chasers. This was where he knew his midnight workouts, with Draco at the Ministry and Iece in her bed, would pay off. Insomnia was a bitch, and during the months when it had been at its worse, weights and jogging were the only way to leave the worrisome monologue in his head behind.

As he soared into position, he insisted that his body was ready for this, stroke or no stroke. Wizard doctors didn’t know everything. His training was in sync with his magic. It bothered him that he hadn’t felt sharp enough to apparate, but that was mental focus and he was all about summoning the strength in his body right now. If he felt a little off, he told himself he had every right to, and pushed it out of the way. The newspaper photo still left his stomach sour. He could always rest later. Besides, things he’d discovered in the past two days wouldn’t let him sit still if he wanted to. Since there was nothing he could presently do about any of it, might as well run his energy wide open, no apologies. Quidditch was just the way to do it.

Players took the formation of an elliptical circle, with seekers positioned overhead. He did a quick study of the chasers he needed to keep up with. Abria blew the whistle and released the quaffle. The South African, Shanti Kotze, shot ahead, beating everyone to the jump. Harry recognized her from the brief bio in the pamphlet given to him when he signed on. He knew she was known for lethal speed, which meant his best move was to stay out of her way. But he had to defend her progress.

They played the run twice, first with Harry directing his blows at the best chaser deflections he’d ever seen. Since the objective was to test him, the other beaters hung back once they saw that he could actually stay with Jasper Torres, the friendly Spanish-American, who had been the first to shake Harry’s hand. But Jasper couldn’t keep up with Shanti. It took a triple block to cut her off, knocking the quaffle right out of her arm as she pivoted to stay on her broom. Harry abandoned Jasper in favor of positioning himself ahead of the trajectory of the bludger currently being aimed at a counter chaser. Jasper followed him. Both raced towards the opposite hoop, with Harry calculating his swing to send the bludger colliding into the chaser’s broom, and Jasper making sure he got to the bludger before Harry had a chance.

The players worked their way from one end of the field to the other four times, with Harry managing to throw himself into defending Shanti, but ultimately being ineffective against Jasper and Greg’s systematic way of braiding the bludger through the chaser’s path. Greg Von Greneger was a German professional, close to Harry’s age. Harry remembered that his name was one of the first to headline championships when interest in quidditch started to make a comeback after the war. He was built more like a junior wrestler, all shoulders and neck, but moved like a surfer through the sky on his broom. And Jasper and Greg played well together. They didn’t even have to aim the bludger, just kept it on an endless pass and velocity that no other beater could catch up with.

For all his training, Harry didn’t have the skill for such synchronized maneuvers. But he could still think on his feet. When knocking the bludger from their monopoly seemed impossible, he shot ten meters ahead of the ball’s path and dove towards impact. This gave him an advantage of, instead of chasing the ball down or waiting for it to come to him, he met it head-on, all judging on his timing. The danger lay in a mistimed blow that could’ve sent him off his broom, or the bludger turning him into roadkill in the air. It was a stunt move, and it didn’t work. Harry was able to knock the ball out of their control, but he sent it straight into Greg’s broom, spinning the man one way and his broom another. Greg’s bat splintered into a spray of exploding wooden shards that gashed both of them with superficial cuts.

Safety charms, set up before the game, stopped Greg’s fall. He was left to hover in midair until his broom made its way back to him. But not before everyone stopped to take in what just happened. It would’ve been a penalization for excessive force in a professional game. Abria called him on it. “That’s brilliant, Harry. But totally illegal. Nice to know you’ve got some balls.”

Most of the team laughed. The way Greg glared at Harry, as he climbed back onto his broom, he might’ve thought they were laughing at him. Harry flew to him. “Are you all right?”

Greg’s strained eyes peered at Harry from the shadow of a prominent brow ridge. Harry added, “You have to know that was an accident. I didn’t mean to do that.”

Greg looked at Harry as if he didn’t know what he was talking about. The absence of any friendliness told a different story. Harry’s apology was somehow embarrassing to him. Instead of answering, he looked Harry over, sneered, then flew off.

Harry nodded to himself. “That’s about right,” he congratulated himself for pissing his teammate off right away.

Abria changed her tactics. “Lets run the keeper drill. I’ve seen what I need to see.”

Harry got back into formation, not minding that his new test as keeper would give him a minute to catch his breath.

He was wrong. Abria didn’t bother staging any other plays around Harry’s ability to keep the quaffle from getting past him. When he saw all the other players line up in front of him, he tensed. She might’ve told him he’d be facing a firing squad. It messed with him a bit. Were they all pissed at the bludger incident? Not twenty minutes ago, they’d cheered him on.

His confidence took a hit, but he hid it behind a mask of determination. They wanted to catch him showing fear, his logic soothed. So they could work around it before he embarrassed them all. Maybe they thought they had to toughen him up. At first they were fair enough to keep only one ball moving among them, giving everyone a chance to test him, not just Jasper and Greg. It was daunting at first, but by the time Harry had successfully blocked four attempts and lost two, he realized there was an element of fun to this. Direct challenge went head to head with triumph and that kept his blood hot with excitement.

Just when he thought he’d surpassed their expectations, they introduced two more balls. Instead of complaining of unfairness, he understood they needed to know how he performed under pressure. He held his own for as long as he could. As his success rate dropped, his frustration rose. The balls came at him at an unrealistic pace that would never happen in a real game. Even when missing them should’ve brought the trial to its logical conclusion, players were allowed to continue baiting him.

Abria hovered on the edge of the action, her eyes wide and delighted at the fervor of her players. Instead of crying mercy, Harry began to make his blocks meaningful. For every ball he blocked, he sent it back with twice the speed, and not just deflection, but aimed it at the thrower so that its direct return caught them by surprise. He knew that he couldn’t keep it up, and that just as many were getting past him. But he also calculated which ball would be his last. If failing was the only way to end this pile-on of players, then he was going to fail spectacularly. The athlete in him knew that was really the spark they were antagonizing out of him. He gave it to them in the form of his hardest shot and retaliation.

Once again, hardcore power became the only reason for being, and his magic supported him. Players gasped to feel the blow push their brooms back ten meters. Harry didn’t know what they felt, but he read the shock and delight in their exploding smiles as they mouthed the word ‘wow’ in the wake of his reaction. No one had to be telepathic to read what his magic relayed as it burnt itself up and faded in the air around them. They had sufficiently pissed _him_ off.

A few of the players suffered mild tingling from the shock wave of Harry’s magic. Two, Quay Brant and Mark Staggler, both US players, actually held their hands in front of their chests, commenting on the stinging. Jaws gaping, they took in Harry anew. One, who had thrown the ball and been the closest, looked down at the blisters forming on his hands, then back up at Harry. Harry met Greg’s stare and took satisfaction in not apologizing this time.

In spite of the hard glare between them, the other players were impressed enough to start another round of applause. Traces of Harry’s magic was still fading. But through it, he could feel how they now trusted his competence among them, and that had nothing to do with his famous name.

After a brief rest and refreshment, they were back in the air for the final test. Abria now knew that she’d waste his abilities if she ever attempted to use him as a keeper. Time to let him do his thing. On his way back to the field, Harry stopped to notice the team medic healing Greg’s hands. Greg looked up from his seat on the bench. Harry made a point of lingering a second longer than necessary before striding off.

On the ground, he’d socialized just enough not to be rude. When he could, he kept his distance, knowing full well his position was still too new and precarious. There was at least one among them, who wasn’t on board with accepting him, and could probably make things difficult. If an issue of loyalty came up, an old friend would win out over a new face any day. Harry had to stay in a mental place where that didn’t matter and didn’t faze him.

When Abria announced she’d narrowed it down to one seeker to play opposite Harry, his gut, along with the gleam in her eye, told him who it was. Greg. Their captain was sadistic. Harry kept his face blank as he took his position in the air. Below him, the rest of the players held formation, gripping their brooms and straining to gauge through the sunlight how he was fairing. Greg shot into position. Across from Harry, Greg’s shoulders hunched forward. He aimed his entire body into a lean that put Harry in his direct path. His first mistake, Harry decided. The man was obviously making this personal. Harry could’ve been the better man and set an example of professionalism, but he got a better idea.

Greg’s menacing expression at first confused Harry. How could a paid, famous quidditch player possibly feel threatened by his amateur rank among them? Instead of being intimidated by Greg, he could barely hide the corner twitch of his mouth as he found it funny. Suddenly, he was back at Hogwarts and took devilish pleasure in using the only ammunition he ever had against Draco. He smiled. But it wasn’t a friendly smile. It was a baiting smile. Secret, subtle, but obvious to someone as caught up in hating him as Greg was demonstrating. It was a naughty smile, with the tiniest bit of tongue peeking through, and it worked. When the quaffle was released and the snitch revealed itself, Harry was off while Greg was startled.

The only real advantage to gaining a second on Greg, was pissing him off, hoping to further throw off his concentration. He was better than Harry in almost every aspect, speed, strength, accuracy. But Harry’s smaller frame could contort itself against his broom in a way that aided aerodynamically. His turns were tighter, helping him to gain a split-second advantage whenever their speeds required turning on a point. Greg could not do ninety degree turns, and Harry drew attention to this by leaning into sharper turns. He used his torso as a counter weight and his broom adjusted to the direction. It was like turning his body into a wand and the broom followed his lead. With the force of the wind, it was tricky getting himself to bend at just the right angle, at just the right time, but much more feasible than the bulk that Greg had to manage through his wide turns. Greg was far from clumsy, but his graceful arch proved to be a weakness against Harry’s leaner technique.

When Harry was able to keep the snitch in his sight, he lost track of what was happening below. The race to grab it, had him side by side with Greg. He felt the other wizard’s magic, spraying downwind like the smell of sweat, pushing his broom to go faster than Harry’s. The snitch turned, taking them on a trajectory through the players below. Greg edged his broom inches ahead of Harry’s and extended his arm. His fingers were a stretch away from the snitch when Harry squinted, drawing an imaginary line from the tip of his broom to the ball, and forced his magic through it. He couldn’t make the snitch come to him, but he could send a blast of energy through the core of the broom to send it out of Greg’s reach. It did the trick, causing Greg to glance back at him with suspicion.

Harry wasn’t breaking any rules. The game required magical command over one’s broom and he was just demonstrating it. That’s what he’d tell anyone if he had to answer for himself later. The snitch hovered in its new location for a second, before speeding past them, forcing them both to backtrack after it. Flipping at top speed, Greg tried to make his turn tighter than normal, causing the rear of his broom to hit Harry’s. Stiff, almost solidly bound spikes of straw, broke off into pieces as both brooms made impact. Harry thought he saw sparks, but didn’t wait to find out. He spun himself out of the stalemate and followed the snitch higher into the air. He got to it first, but Greg’s broom scraped his just hard enough to throw off his reach.

There’s a phenomenon in quidditch known as _seeker’s sway_. It’s the inexplicable way that a snitch’s momentum and course changes in relationship to the seeker closest to grabbing it. The ball seems to react to how heated the desire is to catch it. Always excitable, it accelerates or decreases activity according to the focus upon it. It has a magical connection to the players concerned with it, but does not pick favorites. To sway the snitch, a player has to be consumed with catching it. And then, it only reveals their connection by speeding up as determination grows, or slowing down if disinterest sets in.

After losing his connection to Greg’s brute force, Harry let him charge ahead and gain tremendous distance. Then he put everything he had into speeds that projected his body disastrously ahead of the snitch. This was tricky because he couldn’t always be sure of where it would be from one second to the next. He reached for it just as Greg was about to grab it. Harry’s fingers were close, but not close enough to touch it. His connection to the chase pulled the ball out of Greg’s reach. The snitch had to speed up according to the determination of the wizard who got to it first. Harry counted on his desire for it, to compromise its momentum. This worked. He couldn’t catch it, but when he leaned back on his broom and pulled away, neither could Greg. The snitch was swayed away from him.

Greg’s curses were lost to the wind. Harry lost sight of the snitch and made a wide swoop. He noticed that the players below had mostly stopped to watch him and Greg. It wasn’t a real game, so no one was worried about losing. All interest seemed to be on his competition with Greg. He chose a spot to keep his eyes fixed on. The center hoop at the far end. He’d reached the point that he knew his eyes weren’t going to see the snitch by looking around for it. They were going to keep still until the snitch’s glittering movement distracted them.

Whether Greg had ever learned this trick or not, he caught up with Harry as soon as Harry latched onto the hint of a blur that glistened one second and was gone the next. Greg had only to follow him. He caught up with Harry and their speeds tied. Reckless zeal had them shoulder to shoulder. Their brooms collided. Greg’s foot levers entangled with Harry’s, causing the brooms to lock together. Quickly, Greg tore loose, taking a chunk of Harry’s lever with him. Harry’s broom lurched as he twisted it away. A loud crack slapped in the wind and the rear of his broom disappeared, leaving him with only half a stick and gliding without power. He caught hold of Greg’s tail twigs, which hung by thin slivers that wouldn’t last in the wind. With nothing else to lose, Harry threw himself onto Greg’s broom. Greg punched at his hands, but Harry held on. Deceleration took them down. Greg kept Harry’s arms from wrapping around his broom, but not his legs. All Harry had to do, was throw one leg around the handle, to compromise the broom’s ability to receive instruction. It now had two wizards telling it how to fly. Instead of plummeting, it began to jerk as each wizard fought for dominance.

The snitch flew around their heads, reminding them what they were their for. Both retained the presence of mind to reach for it. Both lurched as the broom obeyed their single desire for the ball. They instantly figured out that trying to knock each other off the broom was never going to get either of them to the snitch. Greg let Harry hang on, in favor of gaining speed toward his objective. Harry hung under the handle and used all his strength to keep his torso in alignment with where he wanted the broom to go. Together, they achieved a speed that got them to the snitch. But in the battle for control, neither saw how close they were to the stands, or calculated the distance needed to slow down. Only safety spells cushioned their acceleration as they slammed into the fabric of the boxseat awning. A canopy of covered seats broke their fall, collapsing the framework with it. It was a stand-alone set of seats, unattached to the main arena. It folded with them inside and sent the rest of the team to the ground running.

Abria barked instructions for the medic and players to dig their teammates out. When the last of the heavy, waterproof canvas had been thrown aside, Harry’s head was the first to pop up through metal and wood supports. Disheveled and bruised, his lip was bleeding but he looked to be in one piece. A flash went off in his face. Abria and the other players grimaced at the photographer before shouting for Greg. They uncovered him, at first unconscious, but waking upon being carried to a levitating cot. Once the medic determined that his most serious injuries were bruised ribs and a cracked elbow, everyone breathed easier.

Abria released her verdict. “Shit, Harry. Hell of a match, now the team’s going to have to vote on this.”

Harry heard groans. He decided to spare them the agony of choosing between the new guy and their friend. He held up the snitch. “I thought this decided everything.”

Abria looked surprised, as did all the others, but oozed a malicious smile onto her face. “Unbelievable. We have a seeker, then.”

Before his shower, Harry accepted an invitation to join his team at a pub. Jasper was especially welcoming.

“Let us buy you a drink. I’ve never seen anyone commandeer another player’s broom, especially not one as big as Greg.”

Up close, Jasper’s bronze blond waves were freed of their band and hung down his shoulders. His Spanish-American accent, along with his black roots, belied his beach head and tanned chest. The ends of his wavy hair were highlighted to match his thin, dyed goatee. He was shirtless, wearing only a towel and sandals. “Us small guys have to stick together.”

At the use of the word ‘small,’ Harry noticed that Jasper’s biceps made three of his.

Quay Brant and Mark Stagger were walking past just then. Quay, no doubt was on her way to the female locker rooms. She nosed in, “Don’t make this about small guys, Jasper. You’ll alienate the rest of us. Harry’s on our team now, we’re in it together.”

Mark whooped, holding his fist out for a bump. She obliged. The sight amused Harry, who had never done a fist bump but knew it was an American show of bravado. “See ya at the bar,” she grinned before leaving. She had a cropped, wedge-looking hair style, extremely dark skin, and muscular definition to her biceps, but she sauntered with rounded, feminine grace that had Mark pointing at her arse and making clawing hands behind her while the others laughed. Harry got the feeling they were a couple, or at least shagging.

“So, how ‘bout it? Drinks?”

He wasn’t about to turn Jasper down, no matter how tired he felt. Practice had given him exactly the work out he wanted, but now he was starting to feel the need to fall on his face. If he added alcohol to the mix, he knew he wouldn’t stand a chance at staying on his feet. Doctor Rankar had already warned him that if he didn’t want to have anymore weird dreams, he couldn’t take the pills and drink while doing so. He promised himself to only have water, no matter what was being served around him. “Sure, where’d you have in mind?”

“My room.”

Harry’s eyebrows went up, but he pretended that wasn’t inappropriate. “I thought she said you were going to a pub.”

“She said bar, actually, that whole American thing. Well, they are. We made plans, but listen mate, if I can get you drinking in my room, that’s my first choice. Am I right?” His grin told Harry how delightfully funny he sounded to himself.

Harry folded his arms. “I’m sorry? We’ve just met. What makes you think that’s appropriate to say to me, your teammate?”

“Oh hell, I don’t mean to offend you, but everyone’s thinking it. I’m only saying it. You made headlines this morning.” Jasper nodded at the newspaper folded on a bench behind Harry. “And I ain’t talking about the fainting spell. We placed bets that there’s a popup tent behind all those pixels. Everything else looks to be in perfect place. If you can kick Greg’s arse midair, you’re no dainty flower behind this. Rumor has it, you fuck like you play. Hard and fast. Some of us just want to know what kind of equipment you’re working with. Drinks in my room will cut discovery time in half.”

Harry blinked while he readjusted his impression of Jasper. He told himself the guy wasn’t doing anything wrong. People hit on him all the time. But he had to stop it right there. “I’m in a relationship.”

The words startled him as much as they startled Jasper. He had never relied on such an excuse before, but there was something about being expected to drop his pants so easily, especially if his whole team thought so, that made him dig in his heals. So he was basically a famous slut to them? “And even if I weren’t, being invited to play with you all is a privilege I’d rather not fuck up by getting involved with my teammates. The people who published that photo, are just waiting on me to screw up. My mistakes are their livelihoods. I signed a contract to conduct myself professionally and I’m going to, so please don’t make anymore advances towards me. I’ll have drinks with you, but that’s all. And by drinks, I mean water.”

Instead of taking insult, Jasper leaned forward, bringing his face as close to Harry’s as he could politely get away with. He touched the tip of his finger to Harry’s nose and said, “I guess that will have to do. Pub’s across the street from the stadium. Sevenish. See you there, Mr. Potter.”

The highlighted tips of Jasper’s hair, whirled past Harry and into the showers.

The pub turned out to be a seafood grill called Mackey’s, with a dance floor and a full bar. Gogol Bordello’s _Start Wearing Purple_ , played in the background and the place smelled of fried shrimp and cologne. Harry found his team corralled into a nook where tables had been pushed together to make room for them. The layout was a series of split levels, railings and terrace seats. The team spotted him and raised their drinks. They shouted his name as if they’d known him his whole life and he had to swallow, moved by how good it felt.

He joined them and quickly noticed who wasn’t there. He turned to Quay, who sat on Mark’s lap. She held her beer in one hand and denied Mark his in her other hand.

“So, is Greg still sore? Do you think he needs an apology?” Only after it left his mouth, did he feel like he was betraying himself. That prat didn’t deserve an apology. Judging by everyone’s laughter, they knew it also.

Quay wiped at the froth on her mouth. “Every team’s got an asshole, Harry. And Greg’s ours. Let him mope a while, he’ll come around.”

Shanti, further down the table leaned in and told him, “He’s sitting down there, pretending he doesn’t want to be up here with us.”

He looked to where she pointed. Greg was at the bar on the floor, looking unfazed and collected in a black tank that showed off his muscles. His eyes flicked up just as Harry tried to piece together what he must’ve been thinking to stoop to avoidance.

Shanti encouraged him, “Why don’t you try buying him a drink? His inner diva will have to give you props for that.”

Harry didn’t want to, but it did seem like the sportsman thing to do. He stood, nodding his consent to give it a try. The team sent him away with supportive expletives.

Jasper grabbed his arm. “Hurry back, so I can be the one to buy you a drink.”

“Water only,” Harry reminded him, gently pulling from his grasp.

At the bar, he made no preamble about sinking onto the empty seat next to Greg, whose only response was a heavy and prophetic sigh. They both knew what Harry was there for and Harry wasn’t going to pretend he wasn’t. If Greg wanted to hold a grudge and sit here all night, that was perfectly fine. Harry just wanted to be able to say he made a gesture to fix things and that was that. He didn’t care if it worked or not. It was never a good idea to force friendship. Let people come to you when and if they ever got ready. Besides, he knew how hurt pride felt and he hated it when well-meaning people tried to rush him through it. It had to spend itself.

He nearly jumped when a bottle of Beamish Stout splashed down in front of him. It was not his drink of choice and the laughter in the bartender’s eyes assured him that he’d meant to startle Harry out of his inner monologue.  
Harry looked from the glass to Greg, who held his own drink level with his temple and cocked an eyebrow. The toast was subtle.

“What’s this for?” Harry asked.

“I beat you, that’s all. Don’t suppose you came down here to chit-chat.”

Harry gave him that. Alright, maybe this wasn’t going to be so bad after all. “You played a good game. Rough, but good.”

“So did you.”

Wow, maturity. Another surprise. Was it too much to hope that this guy really didn’t have anything against him? “So you’re really not pissed at me for what happened today?”

“Oh, I’m pissed.” Greg’s lips sucked around the neck of his bottle. Harry watched the liquid guzzle into his working jaws before he finished his thought. “But if I’m going to lose my position to someone, I wouldn’t have it any other way. Fuckin’ loved it and hated it at the same time.”

He spoke in a low, static voice that held an aggressive tone. Harry was careful not to let his guard down. After a moment, Greg asked, “So you don’t like beer?”

This time, an apology was inherent in his head shake. “Uh, yes. I drink, but I have to avoid it for now. Medication.” He kicked himself. He didn’t have to tell this guy anything.

“Shit, what do you plan on doing for fun? You’re headlining tomorrow, aren’t you? Opening ceremonies and all? We all got tickets to your lecture. I personally want to know how all that Voldemort shit went down, but I can wait.”

Harry nearly choked on the dryness in his mouth. He might not have been drinking, but he did need a beer. He asked the bartender for a water and resigned himself to leave if Greg wanted him to talk about anything to do with the war. He didn’t know why he felt so offended by the use of Voldemort’s name. He’d be using it tomorrow and he always had. It’s just that Greg used it carelessly, without any clue to what the name came to mean to the people who feared it. And now Harry knew what all the grownups from his childhood were talking about whenever they shushed him over the use of the name. If you heard it spoken carelessly, it hit the ears in an obscene, nails-to-chalkboard kind of way. He made a mental note to be more respectful to others when using it. How it was used, revealed one’s ignorance.

His silence, in the aftermath of hearing the name, brought awkwardness to the conversation. Greg’s solution was to make it worse.

"So what are my chances? That Malfoy dude keep tabs on you, or what?”

Now Harry had to worry about spitting out his water.

“Word has it, he's some kind of baddass business wizard or something. A reformed Death Eater? So how'd he let that photograph happen? DMLE hit your hotel up for questioning after he showed up today. They’re saying he tripped wards right in front of muggles.”

Harry hadn’t talked to Draco in two days, not since he delivered Snape’s file. He couldn’t think about him without thinking about Iece. Draco’s insistence that he stay away from her for a week, was nothing but a wall of pain. There was no real reason to stay away from his daughter, but Draco was really reminding him that it was he who wanted time away from Harry. It didn’t surprise him if Draco had reacted badly to the photo. It kinda felt good, that he would still step in and defend Harry if necessary.

Harry didn’t know what to say, so he opted for condescension. "Done your research, have you?"

"I wouldn’t' call keeping up with the news, research. I'd keep a better watch on you if you were mine."

Again, it took effort not to flush. And even more to come back with, "He could be watching us right now."

"Mind if I give him something to be concerned about?"

Harry put his water down and stared to gauge whether Greg was serious. He had yet to see Greg smile and as the first one slid onto his face, Harry understood that he was serious.

Greg sat up and leaned in. "Let's see if he'll come running.”

Harry pulled away, hardly believing the large-boned, handsome features that drank him in through brown eyes. Greg obviously thought he had a chance. Before Harry could correct him, Greg’s hand came up behind his head and pushed it forward, bringing Harry’s mouth into a tight kiss. Lips, fuller than Harry’s, scooped his between them and chewed to get him to open his. The movement was so fluid that Harry actually noted the taste of Greg’s tongue before reacting to push him away.

It was only a second of heat, but it was enough to cause Harry to break into a sweat. He would’ve been less angry if he could’ve hid his flush, but he knew his cheeks weren’t going to let him get away with it. He stood, knocking over his water. It splashed across the bar and onto his pants, gaining notice from the patrons around them. Panic over who might’ve seen them, burst and died in the same instant, in his chest. There was no apology on Greg’s face. If anything, he saw an arrogant satisfaction. Was this some sort of payback? It was too forward and too inconsiderate for Harry to be flattered by it. Again, it made him feel like his reputation had others placing bets on who was going to have him first. He didn’t have the stomach for those kinds of games anymore.

He noticed the bar had gone much quieter. Or it seemed that way to him. People were staring, but mostly went on with their conversations. Looking up, he saw his team at the next level, their eyes gaping. They all turned away from his gaze when he caught them staring. All except Jasper, who raised his beer with a grin, and toasted from afar.

Harry threw down his money. “Don’t you ever do that again.” He turned and left.


	12. American Magic

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Spirits take Harry's side.

Harry stood in front of his bathroom mirror and used his hand to wipe the condensate away. Having taken the hottest shower he could stand, he took comfort in losing sight of his image behind clouds of steam. Just white everything out. Make it like another death and start over again at Kings Cross.

The hotel manager had given him a new room, a rather large suite at no cost. He wasn’t sure why. He thought it had something to do with Draco turning up, or maybe management didn’t want him taking his business anywhere else in light of that morning’s events. They claimed the switch was a security measure. The upgrade was an apology. The room was fancy, all lustrous couches and modern textures. There was a kitchen, bar, spa tub and an extra large bed in each of the two separate rooms. Flat screens were mounted above gas fireplaces that looked more like fish tanks filled with white pebbles and candlelights, controlled by a remote. Outside his bedroom, there was a terrace that joined an infinity pool.

The room was probably a honeymoon suite. The designers got everything right, Harry decided, except for the lights. The bathroom lights. Above him, fluorescent flickering clicked and he could hear gasses causing the glass tubes to expand. It was very loud for some reason, and the light itself was very exaggeratedly blinking. But he suspected, if someone else were in the room with him, they wouldn’t see it nearly as pronounced as he did. His senses were still honed to the snitch, and when he kept very still, he saw the changes inanimate objects made. He heard the lights. No expense had been spared to create an ambiance of antique sconces and crystal illumination. Yet all one had to do was look up to have the illusion of grandeur destroyed.

There were bug carcasses inside the florescent panels. He laughed within himself at that. When he did, the humor felt bitter and it pummeled inside his chest. The very muscles that let him laugh, were levers that pulled hot tears onto his cheeks. It was one of those weird cries, where you hardly knew you were doing it until it happened. Was he that tired? Why couldn’t he just lay down and sleep? He’d already taken one of Rankar’s pills, hoping to feel it working by the time his shower ended. It wasn’t working. He knew it wasn’t a sleeping pill, but it was permission for his body to fall asleep. And still, his body was scared to.

Staring at his reflection, he tried to see himself as others saw him. He tried to see the physical differences from two years ago. Two years, six months, and seventeen days, from the date he pushed another life from his body. It had been a horror show, and he couldn’t believe he wasn’t marked for life, in some way that alerted people to how changed he was. In his T-shirt and sleep shorts, he looked for the masculine lines of his body, needing to figure out what it was about himself that made people like Greg and Jasper, or that asshole photographer, assume it was okay to treat him like shit. Could they see it? Could they see the stain where he’d wallowed around in the filth of his pain, the hate and confusion for months, before Draco put his daughter in his arms and she’d taught him to love himself again.

Was it something that people could smell on him, like fear? How did they know to speak respectfully and kindly to one another, their spouces, their mates, then turn to Harry with their worst behavior? Why did they just assume he could take it? Because they knew his past? They thought they knew what he was capable of. Like he was born to handle all the crap that wasn’t appropriate for anyone else, just because he’d killed Voldemort. Is that what the scar really meant? Cast shit here.

He’d been dealing with challenges beyond his years in life, since he was a baby. Did the scar mark him inside as well as out? He’d been a horcrux, after all. Maybe that ugliness was still somehow attached to him, attracting the worst in others.

He knew that most people would’ve been flattered by the double advances rained upon him by his team members. But it made him feel like, after all this time, he still hadn’t gotten his life together. No one really respected him, no matter what great things were said. They smiled in his face one minute and dumped on him when the crowds went away. That photo of him lying in the bathroom, was proof of the predatory interest in him that had not died with Voldemort, but had only gotten stronger.

It was true. The year after Iece was born, and his body appeared to be his again, he went crazy with it. He had done slutty things and behaved inappropriately. He’d found plenty of people willing to let him. He had stoked the fire of a damaged reputation, but he’d been running from something. He and Draco both had. They’d used pleasure to outrun what had been done to their shot psyches. Something was broken between them and sex with others was the only evidence either of them had that they still passed for human.

He knew Draco had secrets concerning his relationship with his father. And the pain he’d learned to read on Draco’s guarded expression, had him deliberately staying away from knowing more. There was no understanding a family like that. He didn’t have to be told what Lucius was capable of, in order to forgive Draco for his secrets. One had to let some things go. Promiscuity ran its course for them, for the most part. On lonely nights, feelings still swelled to intolerable levels and betrayed their best intentions to play it straight for Iece. But that was few and far now, and they had agreed not to hold it against each other.

Harry realized he could’ve slept with that man. Greg. In fact, that’s probably where he’d be right now if he didn’t have the reminder of that photo to force him to think about his life. He didn’t see himself lying on those tiles as much as he saw an older version of his daughter. As long as he was making headlines like that, she wasn’t safe. It wasn’t hard to imagine the classic scenario. A teenage, unconscious girl at the wrong party. What kind of a life and legacy was he passing on to her? Maybe the Malfoys had it right. Dignity and appearance at all cost. At all times.

He closed his eyes on the futility of trying to sort his thoughts. It was just making him feel worse. One angry scowl at his reflection had him admitting what he was afraid of. He wanted sex. He wanted to be in Greg’s hotel room right now, and he was standing here conjuring the worst thoughts he could imagine, to keep from going there, to keep from knocking on that guy’s door and begging to be nailed to the wall.

The first pill should’ve shut his body down by now. He wasn’t even sleepy. He took another. There were lots of demons tonight. The way his body wanted what Greg had started, he was afraid he’d conjure another night of paralyzing suffering. He couldn’t let that happen. Damn Greg. That guy knew he was a good kisser. That’s why he’d done it. If Harry knew he could get away with using Greg’s body and leaving him cold, he would’ve done it. But the hate behind an idea like that, left a terrible backlash of images. He kept seeing a skinny, drug addled preteen girl, with white-blond hair, sprawled at a murder scene. Why was his mind doing this to him?

He knew why. His nightmares wanted out. They were fighting the pills. When he started to cry, he sat down on the edge of the tub and told himself to stop it.

“Your brain is just working overtime. You had a hell of a practice today. And a fucking stroke. It doesn’t mean anything,” he whispered to the walls.

“But I want so much better for her. I don’t want her to suffer because I can’t get my crap under control.”

She will _never_ end up like that. Nobody wants to hurt her, just because they want to hurt you.

He heard Draco’s voice. _So you think a one-nighter with this fellow will ruin your daughter’s life? Is that where we are now?_

“Fuck you, Draco!”

It wasn’t even sex. Not really. What if he just wanted to sink into someone’s arms? If he had to put out, he’d make himself do it.

“If it wasn’t for your fucking father...”

_If it wasn’t for my father, you wouldn’t have the best thing about your life._

“Then why can’t I see her? Why can’t I be with you both right now?”

And what the fuck happened to his arm? And where the hell was Snape? He quickly shoved those questions back down. Just holding that hard rubbery thing that used to be his arm, spliced his stomach with something like chilled razors, and he wasn’t ready to look full on it.

There was more to the problem than guilt over sex, though he could hear Rankar say, “You need to have positive intimate experiences, Harry. Take back your right to pleasure.”

Lucius had enemies. Enemies who would hurt his daughter. Harry wasn’t imagining that. How the fuck was he supposed to protect her when he couldn’t stop that stupid photo from being taken? Dammit, he wouldn’t be going through this if he could just sleep.

He took another pill, left the bathroom and programmed the muggle alarm clock to sound every hour. It made him feel better to think he could be woken before any dreams trapped him. He wasn’t sure how reliable Rankar’s pills were, they seemed pretty mild. So he took another one.

Draco scolded him. _You can’t both sleep and not sleep at the same time, Harry._

He woke up even more exhausted, with the added bonus of feeling hungover. After lying still and performing a mental scan of his body, he concluded that Doctor Rankar’s pills had done their job. Even though he didn’t feel great, he had survived the night. He hoped that two minutes under a cold shower spray would be enough to make him want to face the opening ceremony of the tour. He ditched shaving in favor of going over his lecture cheat sheets. He got to the Ministry’s pavilion downtown, much later than he wanted. He’d had to take the hotel shuttle. The thought of apparating warned him he’d end up face-down in his own sick upon arrival.

The pavilion was packed with magical people from all over the world, and the nonmagics who could be trusted to mingle among them without freaking out. The atmosphere was that of a carnival, with food stands, children’s rides, and open stages roped off around the main square. The smell of spun sugar and peppered sausages reminded him that he could not have eaten if he wanted to. And he couldn’t remember the last time he ate. Some twenty school children in matching neon orange T-shirts, crossed in front of him. Their shirts read ‘Saunders Sharks’ and glowed like frisbees sailing in front of the sun. The sight hurt his eyes and reminded him of Dudley tossing the muggle toy with his friends ages ago.

He’d been told to meet at the pavilion. It was the historical site of the World Wizard Trading Fair thirty years prior, and remained a treasured landmark that, to unsuspecting muggles, looked like a well preserved train depot from the fifty’s era. A dog park had been built around it.

Today’s parade was supposed to start here and end at Calton Coliseum, at the National Monument. In light of the tragedy near Dungarven, organizers considered it in bad taste to resurrect festivities so soon within the community. In true wizarding fashion, tents and mobile facilities were assembled at the next stop along the tour, Edinburgh, and everyone was making the best of it. Along the route, wizards, witches and magical people of every conceivable walk of life, participated in the international magical expo. The Minister’s campaign to rebuild lives and trust, was only one political tangent being promoted. Some were here to simply sell their wares, or to demonstrate their profession in an educational capacity. Some were there to recruit, and others to entertain. There were dozens of conventions underway, for every country represented, all boasting magical agendas that were billed under the heading Magical Cultural Exchange.

He was supposed to report to some desk and receive a level three security badge to allow him to come and go throughout the tour, from any related venue. He could not be counted in attendance if he didn’t claim it in person.

As if linked by psychic intent, the Minister saw him before Harry saw him.

“Great blazes, Harry! We’ve been looking for you.” Vector Banks slapped Harry’s shoulder and made a stern face. “Lords, you look positively awful. Another day in the hospital wouldn’t have hurt you. We can’t have you running around looking like we’re neglecting you.”

He laughed, but asked, “Where’s Draco? Does he know what you’re wearing?”

Harry stammered and looked down at his slacks and long sleeve button up. This is what he would’ve worn regardless of the past few days. The shoes were yesterday’s new sneakers, but he hadn’t thought it mattered since he’d be standing behind a podium and part of him really didn’t give a damn. They were there to get his experiences, not look at his shoes. Even in his head, Draco tsked.

“Hold still,” the Ministered instructed. He performed a quick charm that knocked off most of Harry’s stubble. When Harry realized what he’d done, he refused to let him finish it off.

“I’m not trying to impress anyone. Where do I get my badge?”

The Minister’s entourage gathered around him and followed as Banks pulled Harry up a wheelchair ramp around the side of the pavilion. Harry recognized his assistants, security guards, and two photo journalists employed to make him look good at every opportunity.  
“This tour is a once in a lifetime celebration. You should be in your robes. I’ll not have you looking so sluggabout, wrinkled, and just plain ordinary, on my watch. You are a spectacular wizard, Harry. Men like you and I must own that. That’s what stops most rivalries before they start. Put it out there for all to see.”

Somewhere between trying to make sense of Bank’s rant and deciding everything would be easier if he didn’t argue, he found himself indoors, in a lounge filled with people bustling to get into the right lines. Banks motioned to a young wizard with a notepad. “Peppa, notify Draco immediately that Potter is severely under dressed. Rachael, in the back of the hall you’ll find trunks. See if we have a thirty-two regular to fit Mr. Potter. If not, use an alteration spell. I can see that I’m going to have to hire someone to look after Harry. I thought Draco was taking care of that.”

Harry could’ve done without the commentary on his relationship. Banks gestured to a corridor on the other side of the ropes. “If you’ll accompany me, we can avoid the registry lines and get you that badge. I have it in my temporary offices, in a safe place. I kept it because I needed to speak with you.”

Harry felt distracted by the heat and tightness around his eyes. He was losing his patience, but he let Banks go on.

“I need to ask a small favor. Do you recall my assistance in getting you onto the crash site?”

Harry did, unfortunately.

“You said you’d, and I quote, “owe” me. I would like to call in that favor now.”

By the time Banks waved to passing officials, paused to shake hands with two campaign managers, have his photo taken with a mother and her baby, Harry was bracing himself to move forward and not give up on the whole day. It was as if he’d left his soul in bed and his body was just walking around faking it, without the resources to see it through. Whatever Banks wanted, he wasn’t in a very cooperative mood. He kept his head down and pretended to be invisible all the way to the set of offices the Minister was currently holding as his own.

Banks closed the door behind Harry and beckoned to a leather chair. Harry turned it down. “No thanks. I’m headed back out.”

Banks pushed a tea service at him and sat down behind his desk, pretending Harry hadn’t just said he didn’t want to be there. “I’ll be brief. We need to present a more wholesome image on the tour. That malicious photo was a compromising cheap shot, and it pains me that it has to be addressed.”

Harry thought of saying, ‘You’re the Minister. Just dig around in one of your convenient regulations and cite charges against the paper. Fine them. Have someone arrested for show, then let them back out. Address the barbaric practice of sneaking photos in a public manner, instead of side-stepping the issue in private with me. Oh, and I’m fine by the way.’

“It puts a blight on the positive objectives of our goals. No one’s blaming you, you understand. I simply wonder if you wouldn’t help me reassure my constituents that you’re fine. Not just fine, but thriving.”

“What are you asking me to do?”

“I want another photo. A real one. One that tells the true story. Let my staff arrange a family portrait, done by a professional photographer, with you, your daughter, and Draco. I shall include myself for a special edition. The image will send an entirely different message to the naysayers accusing my campaign of glossing over the challenges of rebuilding.”

Harry was shaking his head before Banks finished speaking. "Absolutely not. I don't use my daughter to garner acceptance."

"And I'm not asking you to. It's a favor, and you can hide her face again with that little concealment charm. Her hair speaks for itself."

Anger ignited. “Do you realize what you’ve just said?”

Banks raised his hands in appeal. “Now now, it has nothing to do with her relatives. I’m only commenting on the fact that she’s highly identifiable by her hair, as your daughter. The photo wouldn’t have to show her face. I meant no harm, you mustn’t let your sensitivity get the best of you.”

Harry shoved the tea service aside and leaned over Banks’s desk. “And you must realize that a comment about someone’s child, is the most personal comment you could make. Leave her out of your schemes.”

“It’s just one picture, Harry. Your supporters crave news of your family life, and how well you’ve adjusted. Our polls show that the incident at O’Haire - ”

"No."

“Alright, I can make this even less invasive. How about simply showing up with her at the lecture this evening? Let everyone see you holding her for ten seconds. Just walk across the room, with the facial charm. She'll be protected from crowd photos."

Harry was astonished on top of his anger. "You’re not hearing me. I don't take risks where she is concerned. Don't ask me to use her in one of your publicity stunts."

"Harry, don't insult my intentions. You have supporters who love you and would be greatly rewarded by a glimpse of your happiness with Draco"

"Sorry, they'll just have to find their own happiness. I also have enemies. And my relationship with Draco isn't to be used as anyone's model for happiness. We have problems like anyone else."

"Exactly, probably worse. Which is why a picture of you three, holding your own and being a family in spite of your history, speaks more eloquently of your survival, of everyone's survival, than a million words on the topic of your best lecture. It's just one tiny, triumphant picture."

"No, and if you ask me again, I’ll walk. My daughter is off limits."

 

Banks gave a defeated sigh, pausing before reaching inside a drawer and pulling out an envelope. “Your badge, along with pertinant information and maps of the tour grounds in each city. As you know, the train disaster made adjustments necessary.”

He added, as Harry glanced inside his packet. “You’ll want your dress robes for the Mayor’s gala tonight. Everyone wants to see you and Draco there, at least.”

They can keep wanting, Harry thought, taking the envelope and escaping as fast as he could.

He left Banks with the intention of finding the stage where his lecture would take place. He still had a few hours, but he’d spent so much time distracted by so many other things, he’d left nothing to acquaint himself with the layout of the festival or the itinerary. Modular buildings and magical exhibits would be making their way to multiple cities. He would have liked to have time to explore, and maybe even have Draco bring Iece out for the kiddie rides and ice cream. Just because he didn’t want her posing for a camera, didn’t mean he didn’t want them all to have fun. The crowds were a place that they could all get lost in, if Draco agreed to dressing down and wearing a cap.

But today was not ideal for it. Not only didn’t he have time, he wasn’t feeling any better behind that leap to anger in Bank’s office.

He clipped on his badge and started to look over the street map. It listed all of the attractions of the opening ceremony, which was the festival itself, and a layout of each stop along the tour. There were places where his badge would get him free, five-star dining as well as fast food. The maps were magical and inside the little symbols for tents and community halls, notable guest speakers kept popping up. Their headshots appeared with textual narration as to what they would be discussing. When his own head popped up over a large green tent, and began enthusiastically to tell him what a great time he was going to have rediscovering the Battle of Hogwarts like it was a theme-park ride, he thought he was going to vomit stomach acid.

When had the most horrific part of his life become a joke? Critics were right to accuse the campaign of rose-colored hindsight, if this was how history was being treated. It was an insult to everyone who had lived and died, and it had his face all over it. No wonder people hated him. He wasn’t about to endorse that life for Iece. He knew that the advertising slant was more than likely just another miscommunication among thousands, between organizers, graphic directors, and marketing boards. Still, it was too important a topic to misrepresent.

He had no memory of agreeing to that text. Obviously, his image had been magically manipulated the way nonmagics digitally enhanced their photos and films. For some reason, it took the wind out of him and he suddenly felt that if he didn’t put food into his stomach, whether he wanted to or not, he would die on the spot.

There was an infinite amount of cuisine around him to choose from, for food vendors were profiting greatly from the festival. He ate at the vendor with the shortest line after telling the girl inside her mobile booth, “Whatever you’ve got. Anything.” A minute later, he discovered himself quite liking the taste of waffles and chicken meat covered in a sweet burgundy sauce. Having to take his time, sitting down on a bench to eat it, relaxed some tension inside of him. Something about his magic was off and he had to sit a minute, trying to figure out what it was. It was as if he was paying for the superhuman energy that had been advanced to him at yesterday’s quidditch practice.

He was two seconds from the decision to locate his lecture tent, then go back to the hotel to crash. Then he saw her.

She stood on the far side of a ring of vendors, just inside the door way of her small tent. At first her face terrified him. He couldn’t make sense of it, behind how odd he was feeling. But then he realized it was just a normal face. Only two different colors. He believed the word for her condition was _vitiligo_. He’d seen it before, but never so pronounced and dramatic.

From the left of her forehead, in a wavy diagonal down to the bottom right of her jaw, she appeared a pale but healthy pink. But on the other side of it, in the middle of her face, the pink dissolved into deep red-brown. That division of pigment disappeared beneath her top. She wore a flimsy shirtdress with a modest cut above her breasts. The garment billowed in sheer black around her thin arms and accentuated a faux leotard bodice that showed through it. Each arm, Harry noticed, was also a different color.

He would’ve torn his eyes away, once he had her sorted, but she was looking back at him and not letting him go. There was no mistaking it.

He wasn’t up for an adventure, no matter how friendly, but he couldn’t look away. Her eyes became very intent, even from her distance. Her hair bobbed in the breeze. It was the kind of wild, thick, Afrocentric hair that grew out sideways beyond her shoulders, instead of down them. But she had so much of it that it fell under its own gravity around her, hanging cloak-like around her neck and shoulders. And it was red. Not Weasley red, but dark honey-red. The sun lifted beautiful golden highlights from it.

The woman was waving all of her unusual colors at him, to get his attention. And when he doubted that thought, she lifted her finger and beckoned.

Harry felt his legs make the decision for him, moving and stopping when they were three feet across from her.

“Hello,” he started, not sure why he was there. He looked from her quiet smile to the sign outside her tent. It read, ‘Mama Midnight. Voodoo Priestess of the Bayou.’

Instead of waiting for him to offer his hand, she took it, pumping it gently. “Finally. What brings you here, Mr. Potter?”

She was one of those people whose prominent overbite added to her smile, not detracted from it. He smiled, but found her question confusing. “Finally?”

She understood his confusion better than he did. “I know what brings you here, but I want to see if you do.”

“I’m sorry, I feel like I’ve missed something.”

She laughed. “The spirits said you’d be too polite for your own good. I’m Thella Majorie. Mama Midnight is my professional name. I used every trick I had to get you to notice me. The spirits have led you to my tent because they have a message for you.”

She obviously was caught up to speed on who he was. He couldn’t say the same. “Spirits?”

She suddenly looked like she’d said too much. Then rushed forward. “Look, everyone knows who you are, so you’re not going to take kindly to having personal details thrown at you, just to prove that I’m in contact with people who love you. Who want to help you. But I am. I’m only five years older than you. I’ve never met your mother, but I know she has long red hair and a habitual pattern of laying her hand to her throat. She says to tell you that she was often there beside you, under the stairs, as you slept. When you thought the toy soldier at the head of your bed had moved, it had. She was doing her best to show you that you were not going through all of that alone. She had not abandoned you.”

Harry yanked his hand away. He wasn’t sure which of her details insulted his sense of logic and decorum, but her ambush of words managed to trigger every contradictory emotion he had ever felt about communication with his deceased parents, in one swoop. Anyone could make those things up. Most boys get their hands on toy soldiers at one point. Even orphans. Hand me down toys. And every child imagines things that aren’t there in the night. He didn’t want to be rude, to dismiss any possible talent for mediumship she had, this was the place for it after all, but he’d had enough with strangers assuming it was okay to bring up his personal life.

“I don’t care where you’re getting your information from. You have no right to speak of something that’s none of your business.”

“The spirits want to help you. You may be a great wizard, but your ideas about the living and the dead, keep valuable help from you.”

“I don’t need anyone’s help.”

The look on Thella’s face was growing less serene and more desperate. “She says to tell you that her granddaughter is beautiful. When your child was laughing at her mobile, waking you up at 3:00 AM every morning for two weeks, your mother was playing with her. The veil is very thin at that hour, and you heard one side of the interaction. She says not to worry about Draco. He’s committed to you.”

He knew he should just turn and walk away, but she was already under his skin. “Why are you doing this to me? What do you possibly have to gain? A business boost?”

Her slender hand pleaded between them. “We want you to come inside the tent. We have information for you.”

“We?”

“The spirits who are constantly around you.” She stepped closer to him, her voice lowering. “You are being attacked. Psychically. Those who love you, will speak through anyone capable of hearing them, not just me. I bring their messages.”

Attacked? That made him study her with something close to patience. It rang true. But he couldn’t take the word of a stranger. “If all of that’s true, tell me about my father. What does he have to say to me?”

Her confidence faltered. Her eyes dropped to his chest. “What I see confuses me. You summon your father’s wisdom, yet two men step forward. They don’t share the same worlds.”

“Two men? Is one of them Sirius?” He shouldn’t give her the answers, but the thought of speaking to Sirius again, excited him.

She shook her head. “No. Your Godfather is present, but it’s not him. This man is something else to you. Something primary. He, and the man who looks like you, don’t get along. They exist in different worlds.”

Harry couldn’t hide his disgust at her vagueness and predictability. “And let me guess, I’m in danger.” It was Trelawney all over again. Dime store theatrics. He turned from her, but her next words stopped him.

“You seek a man who should be dead, but isn’t.”

He whirled. “How do you know that?”

Thella backed into the doorway of her tent and held the mosquito netting aside for him. “Come into my parlor, Mr. Potter. The spirits would like a word with you.”

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A/N:  Please review! :-)

* * *

 


	13. Love

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The answers are not what Harry expects.

Harry didn’t know what he expected when he stepped into Thella’s tent. He knew Americans had their own classifications of magic, though the origins of voodoo lay far from North American shores. Natives of Haiti and other precolonial people influenced Christian cults as well as Pagan, but he was less familiar with them. He suspected that what popular muggle cinema had taught him, either could not be trusted or warned that one had better respect the misunderstood practice. He vaguely remembered that it was touched upon briefly during Quirrill’s term, and Lockhart had told a fascinating story about fighting off zombies, but none of that helped him now. Just because this woman had expressed gifts of clairaudience, did not mean she understood spellcraft the way he knew it. Still, he had to respect other forms of magic that apparently worked for other cultures, especially when his ignorance blinded him on the matter.

The interior of her tent encouraged him to keep his mouth shut before he judged her. It appeared to be a simple room of fabric walls. Small, but wide enough to house three large murals on either side of him and ahead. Right away, he knew it wasn’t nails holding the murals to the tent walls. It was magic. It was like smelling food and spices from a land not native to his own. Immediately identifiable as a manipulation of energy and matter, but bringing an entirely new assortment of sensations that have never been put together in his mind, in quite that way. So new, it was too soon to form a liking or disliking.

A beautiful carpet presented burgeoning magnolias blossoming at his feet. Some charm caused him to smell their perfume when he noticed them. On each side of the tent, nighttime waters glistened in a swamp. Guilded boarders of custom frames, held them contained within four sides, but the murals were so lifelike, climbing lichen and long tendrils of Spanish Moss, spilled out into the room. He could smell the freshwater wetlands, mud and dry rot. He could smell black, murky water native to that space. He felt a thin breeze travel through clusters of leaning willows and crawling cypresses. Fireflies leapt out of the mural and flickered across his face and neck. The breeze that bore them, tasted of a different way of life and smelled like lotus.

Shadows of midnight blue and clouds drifted in front of a full moon. Sounds came from the scenes. He identified frogs croaking, but wasn’t sure about screeching creatures that sounded far off inside the pictures. Curiosity drew him closer to the one on his right. The room’s space only allowed a two foot distance between himself and the murals. He startled when something moved by his leg and splashed into the water. Thick, armored scales disappearing beneath Lilypaded flotsam told him that it was a creature he’d only ever seen in a zoo. An alligator. He knew the murals were supposed to be beautiful, but they were creepy, his brain now firmly decided. Amazing, but creepy. How did her customers not run out of here?

He heard laughter in her response to his examination of the mural. “I assure you, my average customer never sees the magic, only the paint.”

Between the murals, there was a small table and three garden chairs. Like a prerequisite centerpiece, a crystal ball and tarot deck sat waiting. In a corner, stood a tall cabinet with glass doors. Lit with soft illumination from the inside, it displayed an assortment of objects, no doubt intended to look mysterious, but bordered on disgusting as Harry’s eyes adjusted to the contents. There was something that looked like a giant pickle jar full of living Lamprey eels. The sight was pretty underhanded, considering those things reminded him of swimming, elongated turds with teeth. Then he saw, what he hoped was only a model, of a two-headed baby in another jar. He began to regret his decision to enter. Did her customers need such gimmicks?

She answered the unimpressed look on his face. “Such objects engage one’s curiosity. They’re for show, for thrills. When my customers are fascinated, is when I get the most effective information for them. They don’t come to me looking for the ordinary.”

He didn’t need or want her explanation. “So how do we do this?” He couldn’t keep impatience out of his tone. If her message was so urgent, he didn’t want to waste another second on swamp theatrics.

She stepped ahead of him, to the mural behind the table. On it, sat the bayou centerpiece, a house. A rickety, Antebellum period home sitting on marshy wetlands. It was a peeling, decrepit estate with columns and two levels of terraces holding its own after a century of encroaching heat and damp. It stood behind bogs and roots that straddled the water level by two feet. Light’s flickered in moss strewn windows. Shadows moved across them as if there were people inside. Somewhere on the creaky old porch, windchimes made of stretched bottles rattled in isolation. They pierced the room with their clinks. Crickets and cicadas added to the music. She pushed at the door of the house and beckoned him to follow.

They entered another room. A secret room. But this time, the magic inside was not so dark and claustrophobic. On the other side of the painting, in the new room, sunlight stretched on and on. It went from spilling across barewood floors and an octagonal space of window seats, full of light an billowing curtains, to a white terrace on the opposite side of the room. It was as if they had entered the painted house and now were just steps away from venturing onto one of the terraces. Only, instead of looking out onto a creepy night, a beautiful day lay ahead.

He never made it to the terrace. Doors to it remained open, but she motioned for him to take a seat in the center of the room. This time another small table sat, but quite plain and devoid of any props. Only a white covering hinted that it held any significance at all. The cloth seemed to glow, like the curtains.

“It’s just an illusion to soothe people. Only the ones who are so troubled, that they’re ready to let go of harsh ideas, ever make it to this room. They require soothing.”

She sat across from him. "Let’s get something out of the way. You were pregnant when you fought _him_. Beneath all of your thoughts, you are broadcasting the fear that it has affected her somehow. It has not. Children come through their parents absolutely knowing what they’re in for. They’re not helpless before they get to you. They’re intelligent and powerful. None of them fear a rocky beginning when they have so much ability. It is a shock, however, to have to adjust to a body that isn’t as advanced. She came for you, you know. She came when you called. Your cries were your consent."

He didn’t know what hit him harder, the fact that she knew he was the birth father of his daughter, that he was lying to the world, or that his child, on some level, could have an awareness of that awful night. To believe her, was to trap himself with the unthinkable. Yet he’d entered hoping he could believe her.

She tried to ease the disturbance she’d inspired. “Don’t worry, now that she’s here, she’s a normal baby. All of us set aside our true knowledge of each other, in order to have valuable experience as humans. Some of us pick our knowing back up, some of us wait till we’ve let these bodies go. Your daughter will never confront you with that night.”

He kept his voice under control. “Could you please just stop talking about it?”

She realized her mistake. “Of course. I don’t mean to be insensitive. Everything I’m telling you, is because someone is telling me. And all of it stays between us.”

Once he found his focus again, he got to the point. “The man who’s not dead. Who is he?”

He had every right to test her, he didn’t care how close she’d already come.

Her eyes fell away from him. “Snake? They’re saying Snake, but I don’t think that’s right. People are surrounded by traces of all of their identities in the spirit world. We shed the names and costumes and are known by pure identity that needs no name. If you and I had no names, we would still be who we are. So names don’t translate well, and he’s interfering.”

Close enough. “Where is he?”

Her open eyes saw nothing external, but internally, she squinted. “It’s a bit strange. Your mother gives me a clear view of his face, but he snatches it away. He’s performing magic. I think… I’ve never seen this before. He’s not like the rest of the people around you. As I’ve said, he’s not dead. No one really is, but he’s very much a part of our world. In fact, he walks in both worlds, and that isn’t usually done. He is influencing what I can tell you. He’s hiding information. This man is not telling me who he is and he’s blocking my view. He must be very powerful to be able to do that. At a certain level in spirit, there are no secrets.”

Harry leaned forward. “He’s aware of us?”

“This part of him is. Sorry if I’m confusing you. Everyone, at their core, is a spirit. An entity with or without a physical body. But most people have amnesia when it comes to their true self, like I was saying about your daughter’s memory. So our bodies walk around oblivious to what our true selves are up to in our entirety. But this fellow is functioning on multiple levels, not just ours. In fact, just attempting to examine him like this, has triggered a reaction in his physical presence. Your mother says that he is using his stone to scry. This is how he finds you. This is how he knew you were in trouble. We’re disturbing him, so Snake, the wizard, is attempting to locate the invasion of privacy that he feels. But Snake, the spirit, is already in the room with us. They are extensions of the same being. They do not want you to find him.”

“But out there,” he motioned behind him, “you said that he and my father come forward when I summon my father’s wisdom. Does he want to talk to me?”

She sat listening. All Harry could hear were people passing by the tent. “Oh dear. Just asking that, flares emotion in him. He’s very fragmented when it comes to you. Very desperate. He’s not saying anything. It’s obvious that he wants to talk to you, but it isn’t obvious why he does not. Your mother says that his spirit is here to act as a guide for you, just as all of them are. But the fact that his living body knows so much, is allowing it to fear what you might want. She says you should let him have his secrets for now. They have all gathered here to help you. You’re the one who’s under attack.”

“The train explosion? Was someone trying to get to me?”

“Closer. The strike against you, is closer than that. Your daughter is like a new connection, joining you with another. The one who attacks you, is able to do so, because of that connection. Give me your hands.”

He hesitated.

“I’m not going to read your palms, I’m going to read your magic.”

He placed his hands on the table. She turned them palms up and her eyes traveled back and forth exactly like reading pages. “It all comes down to interpretation. Your body was quick to recover, but you’re led here because you needs salts and enzymes replenished. I’ll make you something that will help. Electrolytes. When you leave, stock up on them.”

“Who’s attacking me?”

“He’s not doing it on purpose, though any wizard worth his gold, should know the effects are felt. Until you talk to him, he will allow himself to believe that he is not harming you, that it’s just a dream. If you don’t talk to him, you will suffer again.”

“If we’re not talking about the train, what are we talking about?”

“Your mother says two nights ago. You were hospitalized yesterday.”

The stroke. Oh. “My mother knows about that?”

She rushed to make it okay. “Harry, there is no shame in the spirit world, not at your mother’s level. She’s not even your mother, she simply presents herself in a way that you can connect with and remember. We’re all old souls, we’ve done it all. There are no secrets. We’ve murdered and been murderers. We’ve been rapists and victims. Hell, I’ve been a slave owner as well as a slave. How else was I going to learn what it means to those who live it and invent a life where it cannot happen again? Look at my skin. My face, my whole body is my guarantee that I will never forget again that the races are not separate. Like my face, midnight is the demarcation of one phase becoming another, hence my name, Mama Midnight. I’m young and childless, but I want to teach like a mother. I want to teach everyone who looks at my skin in horror or appreciation, what my soul knows about the illusion of control over another. Rape is no different. Same classroom, different subject.”

Her words submerged him in feelings he immediately knew he had to protect her from. She aroused anger and the thought of coming to in the next second, to find irreversible harm done to her, the way he had in Rankar’s office, made him suppress his anger to the best of his ability. She had no right to dredge this subject up. She had no right to know his secrets. But that, more than anything, told him that she was getting her information from legitimate sources. Maybe he should listen.

It helped when she added, “I’m not saying any of it has to happen, because it doesn’t. But when we can’t plot another way out, even if it’s just in our minds, even if it’s imaginary, then we’re locked into an unalterable course. Now, I can imagine a million ways to run an estate without slaves. And I am always certain of my power, which ensures that I will never be anyone’s property again.”

She closed her hands around his. Warmth, and something else, pushed water from his eyes. He sat very still, feeling it spill involuntarily.

“Our spirits literally don’t know how to fear these things. It’s only when we’re human that we learn what to be afraid of. Don’t let the fact that your parents know what you’re going through, hurt your heart. All they care about now, is love and they are so attuned to your love, that they are here to remind you that this is nothing that you can’t handle. You’re very powerful, Harry. Not just your magic, but your love. Why else do you think you’re in the middle of so much turmoil?”

He had no answer, and waited for all the world, to see what hers was.

“Because you’re needed where love is most needed. What happened to you wasn’t an accident. You hunted the wizard who did this to you. You have programmed yourself to confront his kind. You killed his leader and you conquered his house when you divided it by taking his son’s loyalty. I know I’m speaking in archaic language, but that’s the hidden reality. You focused so hard on bringing this man to justice, that you sacrificed your body to do it. Now he is locked on course with you, through the blood that binds you.

“Through this connection, in order to survive it, you are learning abilities of freedom that you only dreamt of when they locked you in the cupboard as a child. Before this is over, you will learn to come and go, not just from muggle world to magic, but from physical to spirit, and back again at will. Usually people have to die before they realize this is possible. As for the child’s father, your magic is infecting him like a virus. He will love, or he will die. The more he visits you in dreams, the greater your influence in his life becomes. He will never be a nice man. But you will bring him to the only justice that exists. Love.

“Very troubled magic, from ancient bloodlines, want to make a new beginning, and they have, through you. You agreed to come and do this, just as your daughter agreed to come. Just as your parents agreed to come. So many people love you, that at any given time, the spirit world surrounds you and observes you. You have fans in the spirit world. It would be distracting except that you are very focused, in spite of what you think. You can take it. It has never knocked you off course or stopped you.”

His head was starting to spin. “What, psychically? So many people hate me as well.”

“And they are irrelevant. They can’t hurt you. You bore a wizard’s child. That decision opened you up to him and put you at risk.”

“That was hardly a decision.”

“You chose to carry it, instead of getting rid of it. You sealed his connection to you.”

“That’s absurd! That wasn’t a decision. That was me trying to do the lesser of two evils.”

“You didn’t mean to, I’ll give you that. You didn’t consciously weigh the pros and cons. But you’d done all of that through your magic and your spirit, which reads energy faster than the intellect can decide to blink an eye. You crossed a line with this wizard. Magic interprets your child’s genetics as a blood contract. Through that contract, her father is able to touch your spirit as if he were touching your body. It’s no different than any other bond. Your magic makes it so. In his eyes, you were persistent in meddling with one of his greatest treasures. You would not be driven away. Now he has used your love to lock you in his grip. Again, he has not consciously weighed this decision, but like you, through what he wants the most, his magic has. He now sees you as a valuable acquisition.”

Harry forced himself to say it. “Lucius. You’re telling me that Lucius did something to cause the stroke?”

“Don’t speak his name unless you want him to come to you. Because of her, he’s closer than you think. People have their own natural defenses against spiritual attack. Even nonmagical folks. But your magic is wounded by the trauma that you still carry in your heart. Your mother wants to give you some help.”

“Why do you keep mentioning her, and not my father?”

She dropped eye contact. This caused him to suspect that her next words were hiding something. “She’s a bit of a spokes person. Her energy is the strongest, as if she has the support of all the others. As if they’ve taken a vote.”

“I want to talk to my father.”

“He can hear you.”

“Does he have any kind of message for me?”

She shook her head. “Only that his love goes where you go. They’re all saying that. They want to keep it very general, so as not to distract you from the point of being here.”

“What is the point?”

“You need protection. We're going to make you something, using all the magic that your loved ones want to give you. Your trauma is blocking your ability to protect yourself from the child’s father. Your mother suggests a bypass.”

“Why did my father pick on Snape so much? Is that the real reason Snape ended up being hated and hiding his true self from everyone? Is that why he’s hiding from me now, even though he’s obviously obsessed with saving my life? Why would he keep saving me if he hated my father so much? I saw his memories and my father… went too far. If he saved me because he loved my mother, then by that logic, he could just as easily leave me to die because he hated my father. Why is he bothering?”

The look on her face, as she searched for the answer, was something akin to watching an autopsy. Harry had seen one online. He’d done it to shock himself into feeling again. Corpses on the grounds of Hogwarts were too close to home, and too filled with sadness. But a strangers donation to science wasn’t attached at all to horror. It was a safe way to deal with feelings of vulnerability. He’d watched it, uneasy and concerned for the lack of privacy and lack of reverence. That was really the lesson in it for him. It had fascinated him as much as it horrified him to see another human being reduced to what amounted to parts and labor. On the floor of Lucius’ ballroom, he’d been reduced to parts and labor. His exposure could not have meant to those watching, what it had meant to him, the corpse. He only remembered glimpses of it, but that’s because he knew he couldn’t take remembering every detail. His friends had seen that.

He thought he saw disgust flicker across her composure before she reeled it in. How long had she trained, till she’d learned to protect herself from emotions that didn’t belong to her.

She shook her head. “Can you think of no reason why this man would bother to save you? It’s the most obvious reason. You couldn’t give up your child once she became real to you. Neither can he. You didn’t know her, yet you kept her alive out of love. Some people would’ve ended her potential for the same reason. Your mother says to trust your instincts. This man helps you because he loves you, no matter what your father has done.”

It wasn’t enough. “I want my father to come forward and tell me why he treated Snape like that? I want to know if Snape ever did anything to him?”

“Harry, compared to where your father is now, these are petty concerns.”

“You didn’t see the man who’s saved me time and time again, strung upside down and stripped in front of the whole school. No one fucking helped him. People kill themselves over that shit. Why did my Dad and his friends do that? If he’s here, let him answer.”

“Harry, calm down. Your magic is demanding that he account for himself. It is aggressive and you are opening energies that respond aggressively. That opens the door to something that isn’t love.”

“Answer me.”

“Your father is somewhat quarantined. He can draw near you in love. But he is not as adept at it as your mother. She’s a powerhouse and that’s why they appoint her to speak for them all. At the human level, he admits to making mistakes. At his core, he admits nothing.”

Harry pushed his intention to speak to his father into her. He spoke through clenched teeth. “Tell me why you did that to him! That was evil, and I didn’t come from evil. I want to find Snape and make it up to him.”

At first, Thella’s surprise sent her back in her chair. He was trying to force his demands into her, to get to his father. When her eyes darkened, so did everything else in the room. She looked at him the way an adult looks at a child who has accidentally killed its pet bird. How to explain the unexplainable? The death part was easy. The part about why it was wrong, was not. Entire muscle groups shifted in her face, which lost its oval, feminine characteristic, and became rather set, square and grimacing. It took Harry a moment to realize that his father was using her body to the best of his ability, to respond. The voice that manipulated her vocal chords, was not that of a woman, but of a man who had no other vocal chords to speak with. The sound of James Potter’s voice hit Harry’s ears in alarming strangeness and familiarity.

“Hello Harry. My son.”

Harry felt his soul fall one way, and his brain another. The two could not process what was happening. The room kept pulsing from light to shadow. Every time it went dark, Thella’s face became his father’s face. The light in her eyes, became his father’s identity. It didn’t mesh. They were two substances that refused to mix.

Wasting no time, James leaned forward and took Harry by his wrists. His strength was that of a man three times Harry’s size. His grip jolted Harry’s magic.

“That wizard is far more than Snape,” he hissed. “I saw him for what he was. There were no mistakes. He was one of the greatest adventures of my life. He still is. I came here to do what I did to him. I wrestled with an angel and I won. They do not give up their power without a fight. I lost my human life, but I won so much more. I regret that for no one. Your mother. Severus and I. All of us. We set a time and place. We kept it. No appointment is ever missed. And Harry, you’re no different. You are orchestrating this from an entirely different level. Live by my example. Take what matters to you the most. It’s your turn. It’s the only way to get what Severus knows into the magic of this world. Your daughter exists because of what I did to Severus. There is now new magic in the world. I didn’t back down. I will never regret that and you shouldn’t either. I love you, but you must not judge spiritual things by human standards. They are incompatible.”

Thella’s hands released him and her body fell against the back of her chair. Frozen to his seat, Harry couldn't decide whether to help her or to insist that the last blast of spoken words from his father, wasn’t real. His bruising wrists insisted that it was.

“Harry… I’m sorry.” Her breathing was short. She brought her hand over her heart and he looked around for something that could aid her recovery. “Water…” She motioned behind him. A corner nook held bottled water, a bowl of protein bars, and stacks of plastic storage baskets. He grabbed the water and scooted his chair closer. She looked exhausted and sweat dappled her brow. He sensed that she hadn’t expected that to happen any more than he did.

“I tried to hold him back,” she said, taking a sip. “You mustn’t think that that’s the true state of your father. That’s like a recording he’s left behind. You tapped into it when you got angry. It was the only part of him that could speak to you then. It’s a lower perspective. It’s something he was going through when he was alive. Trust me, he’s beyond that now.”

“He seemed pretty convincing to me.”

“Never talk to the spirit world without love in your heart. This is what determines the quality and response that you get. You could get the best of him, or the worst of him. Everything we do and feel during life, is able to continue emitting signals of its own, even after we’ve gone. They’re called thought forms and people mistake them for hauntings and unpleasantness all the time. They can act independently, but they’re usually limited until they get passed their emotions. You were too angry to meet him in love, and he was too beyond your anger, to give you a clearer representation of himself. So you got the part of him that you were the most upset about. You tuned right into it and it came out. This is how we make decisions, unknowingly, all the time.”

“Did that hurt you?”

Her head nodded in reflex, but she answered, “I’ll be fine. It’s a shock, is all. He tried to say that both of them are working on challenges and simply chose each other as worthy opponents. Everyone does this. In one life, one might be the predator. In another, the other will play the part of the prey. Often, the dynamics will shift between man, woman, and child. You are not to feel guilty for your father’s mistakes towards the one called Snape. That’s his name. They were tag teaming before you were born and they will continue to do so. It is their game and your idea of justice is not going to deny them their drama. In spirit, there is no right and wrong. There is only experience. Humans, who feel helpless, fear that, and so deny their true selves. We try to live in right and wrong divisions, but we only set ourselves up for disillusionment.”

Fine. He couldn’t deal with that just now, but fine. He found the experience draining him and was ready to be done with it. He wasn’t going to be fit for a lecture. “At least tell me this. Did Snape have anything to do with the train explosion?”

She paused, as if this required a completely different approach. “No, not in any harmful way.”

“Then who is responsible for it?”

“I will answer, but we must get to the protection. There can be no more questions after this. You can come see me another time.”

“Okay.” She was right, that was best. Something about feeling how unyielding his father was, dislodged his foothold on his own integrity. He’d felt as if the strength coming from those fingers, were trying to speak to him in ways that words could not. There’d been a more urgent message in their grip, but Harry was too rattled to decipher it. How can right and wrong simply not matter to anyone? Surely, the Universe wasn’t that heartless. Surely, better answers lay somewhere else. And that wasn’t the man he’d loved and put on a pedestal. That energy had felt completely different.

He quickly added, “How did Snape know that I was in danger, in the first place?”

She listened to the answer being given to her. “As I’ve said, he scries. He’s made a point of using salenite instead of obsidian. So many lower energies use obsidian for easy power. He’s learning that he prefers gentleness. He catches glimpses of you. He struggles to piece them together. He saw that you were on the train when it went up in flames. He made a point to be near you until the event had passed. He didn’t cause it. No one person caused it.”

He waited. “Death Eaters?” He didn’t know if she knew the term.

“Larger groups. That information is covered by false layers. False governments. There is no direct route to it, it is concealed by generations of deceit. One party thinks another is to blame. They are all deceived. Those deaths were but a chess move towards swaying the opinions of weaker people.”

“So no one’s trying to kill me? No one’s willing to risk other lives to get to me?”

“Your name figures in their plans, but they do not value your life. They knew you were on that train. Your death was advantageous, not critical.”

He registered his fear and kept going. “Will they attempt it again?”

“Your level of influence, and your love of nonmagical people, makes you an enemy to them. If you had no power, you would be quite safe. They’re only concerned with threats to their magic. They have technology and magic that lets them see future timelines. This is where I must stop and tell you how to protect yourself. Give me your hands again, we’re going to make a talisman.”

“Can you at least give me a name, an association? I can pass the information on.”

Impatience and pity crinkled her brow. “I’m being given something very disturbing. We’re talking about world governments hidden behind world governments. Authorities have no authority. When they want to incite people to act, they manufacture catastrophes that inspire helplessness. They try to turn parties against each other to construct more advantageous power systems. They run this planet like a business. Nonmagics are cattle to them, and you must not disturb their cattle. The only way out of their influence, is to cultivate your own love and peace. Millions of people change their minds about taking airplanes and trains, or turning a corner, or switching lanes in traffic, everyday, and they escape the influence. People are not helpless. The same spirit that is in constant contact with your mother, is in constant contact with everyone. How close you are to love, centered securely in it, or raging outside of it, determines how clearly you receive the pure message to switch lanes or to not board a train. This is how we all make our choices.”

The sheer concentration of her information, pushed his head back. More than words went into his mind and he felt his brain attempt to swallow the chunk he’d been given. It went down with resistance. When he fought to reply, she held up her hand. “No more.”

She took his hands again. He let her.

“I need your blood. Only a pinprick.”

He waited for her to produce a wand, but found himself amused by the digital diabetic meter that she used instead. American magic had evolved differently.

Before he could ask why, why resort to the likes of a talisman, she answered. “I know what you’re thinking. Movies and TV have made talismans tacky as hell. I still remember that rerun of The Brady Bunch. But the spirits around you want to contribute. The only way they can have influence on the physical plane, through their magic, is by using the magic in your blood.”

What the hell was The Brady Bunch?

“We’ll need the highest level of magic that we know. Love. I know I’m throwing that word around too much, people underestimate it. They don’t really know what it is or how it works. There are some cultures that actually use it as a technology. Those are practically invisible to cultures like ours.”

“Then what is it? How does it work?”

“It’s so great a thing, that everything is made from it. It can take anything, transform anything. It existed before mankind invented words, and none were ever invented that could describe it accurately. So I’m not going to attempt to describe it to you. You know it well enough. When you look at your daughter and light up from her happiness, you know you’re in the center of it. You literally cannot feel that joy and fear anything else at the same time. This is where your mother stays, and this is why the others gather around her. She’s a stable portal to you.”

He didn’t know why entirely, but this felt immensely satisfying. It brought more comfort than thinking his mother wasn’t at rest because he’d messed up his life and that she had to worry about him being attacked. Could he really trust that rose-tinted perspective? Even if it ran the risk of not being true, it should’ve been. It was a better alternative and there was no real reason that he had to settle for less. He wasn’t sure if he believed in Heaven, but if there was one, then his mother deserved that version of it, where pain couldn’t touch her anymore. Not even his pain, no matter what she saw from her vantage point.

Thella pricked the back of his hand and was now using a pestle and mortar to mix it with a series of powders and salts she’d pulled from her little stack of storage boxes. Some of it looked surprisingly like flour and dirt. The mixture formed a clay and she molded it with her bare hands. At one point, she turned her back to him and said something under her breath, but she turned back to him and finished the process by letting it heat in foil, over a simple tea candle.

How in the world did she function without a wand? Would this be classified as a derivative of wandless magic? Would the masters at Hogwarts concede that her methodology was equal in craft to their own?

He forgot these questions when she told him, “Your mother had no doubt in her mind that her love could save you. She did not consider using it to save herself. You were her only priority that night. Her time was up. Besides, she has been able to help you far better from that side than if she were still on this level. The same concern for you, comes from the other man as well. Snape. Love is where your family comes to, to meet you. That’s where we all meet in our truest forms. Even your enemies. If you can access your love, in that second only, you can have no real enemies. This will help you.”

She removed the clay from the flame and they both watched it harden as it cooled. “Your magic will keep it from breaking. Sleep with it. Wear it.” She had fashioned it into an irregular doughnut shape and now cut a leather string from a spool hiding among her boxes.  
It looked like a flat, pale brown Cherio to Harry, the size of a quarter. He let her slip it around his neck.

“The intention within it, is nothing but love. When you feel insecure, when you feel under attack, rub it and summon the love that you know is there. It’s just a very powerful physical reminder. No one really needs such a thing, but until you feel more like yourself, you could use some help and there’s no shame in that. Above all else, ask for protection as you sleep. Stop taking the pills, you need your dreams.”

He stopped trying to look grateful and thought about what she was saying.

“Dreams have all kinds of functions. They cleanse. They broadcast what’s coming, and what you need to do to avoid or benefit. They rebuild what the day destroys, your connection to your love. They even let you test alternatives without physical repercussions, so that when the physical decision comes, you are ready for it. So you see, no matter what influences lay waiting and unfriendly, you have everything you need to steer clear of it, and to remain powerful within yourself. Everyone does. More than anything, this is love. We can lose our way, but we can find it again.”

He decided that he’d gotten more than she’d promised. He tried to offer some sincere words of thanks, but felt her nudging him towards the room through which they had come. “Your lecture is in less than an hour. They’re looking for you. The green tent is the largest, straight ahead. I’ll be there in the floor seats. Look for me.”

She thrust him into the evening air and he wondered how much time must’ve passed. It was still daylight, but dimming to that surreal blue that colored everything once the sun was gone. Crowds had thinned, but the rides and vendors were still going strong. He assessed his body, his mind, his focus. How did he feel behind all of that? He touched the talisman. An electric signal leapt from the thing to his fingertips. It buzzed against them and he let that sensation unfold, spreading to his palm and down his arm. His body translated the signal. It flung away his exhaustion and showed him a laughing little girl with hair glowing in the sun and a smile glowing even brighter. His. He’d done that. Nothing else mattered but that.

Anyone looking at him, might be in confusion as to why he stood their grinning ear to ear, for no obvious reason. But he wasn’t. The talisman worked. It flooded him with love and his mind translated that into the spirit of his daughter. He didn’t just see it, he was living it. No wonder spirit was so different from flesh. No wonder it wasn’t afraid of anything. No wonder, it didn’t register fear the way humans do. With this kind of love, it had nothing to fear.

He took off in complete faith that his feet would find the right tent on time. By the time he saw it looming ahead, he realized he’d forgotten to pay Thella for her service to him. That was okay. She promised to come to the show. His magic bristled. He’d pay her then. His mother had sent the Voodoo lady to him. His mother, Lily, was whispering through her love even now, that something was going to happen and he’d have need of a young woman posing as the mother of all mothers. Mama Midnight.

* * *

A/N: If you're reading this story, I would love to hear from you. :-)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Credit to Ester Hicks (Abraham) for the idea of children/spirits making choices about their birth parents and not fearing a rocky start.


	14. Escape

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Draco runs into trouble.

Draco tried to leave Iece with Hermione on the day he visited her. He returned from the O’Hair Plaza and left reassured that Hermione and his sister needed the time to get acquainted. He thought he could do it. He thought he could make it through the night without her, but he called from his hotel room later that night to say that he’d be picking her up.

“She’s asleep, Draco. She’s doing fine, I don’t know why you’d want to disturb her.”

He wasn’t willing to tell her that he’d never spent one night without her since her birth. Not willingly. He’d had to work long shifts with the Ministry, but he always saw her within a twenty-four hour cycle. He’d been the loudest proponent for round-the-clock daycare facilities at the Ministry, but only used them when he couldn’t get away from his projects.

He couldn’t sleep, and the feeling was creeping over him that he’d let her go to Hermione’s too easily. He’d been too trusting, just because he was coming off of his anger with the hotel staff, and he hadn’t wanted it to have an adverse effect on Iece. His uneasiness had grown. She could call him paranoid all she wanted, but he had a sixth sense about these things.

“Honestly, it’s after eleven. Ron’ll be home soon and Ginny’s keeping me company. Your daughter is asleep in my bed as we speak. Your trust in me has got to start somewhere, and frankly it’s a little insulting that you’d hand her to me one minute, then snatch her away the next. This isn’t going to work if you can’t get through one night.”

If she’d meant to calm his fears by presenting him with an image of Iece snuggled in her bed, it had the opposite effect. The details were too intimate. Ron slept in that bed. He had to get his little girl out of that house. The Weasley Effect was all over it. There were too many of them and it made him think of Iece sleeping in a single patchwork bed, crammed full of red-headed children, piled on top of each other like cats. He’d forced himself not to correct the word ‘daughter’. Damn right she was his daughter.

The sodding cheap hotel was purely muggle, and ten minutes from her house. He’d chosen it because it was close. “Have her ready in ten minutes.”

He hung up, knowing he’d regret being rude to her. But she couldn’t know what this anxiety was like. She didn’t have children and she didn’t have family ties to Death Eaters, or their enemies, who would never forget who Iece’s relatives were. He wanted to let her run free and play like other children, but that was a luxury they didn’t have.

He was already dressed and he decided not to drive, but to floo. The hotel didn’t have the proper facilities, so he had to stand in the tub and transfigure curtain and rod to create a physical link to the coded network available to him. A license to hardwire access into the magical infrastructure, came when he’d completed his second term in the Dark Artifacts Department. He could’ve apparated, but he hadn’t thought to warn her he’d do that. Her wards might be up, and he didn’t want to give her too much time to prepare for his arrival. She’d detect his entrance, but it would give him a moment to catch her by surprise. He hadn’t liked the sound of her and Ginny Weasley socializing downstairs while Iece was left alone in a strange bed. He wanted to catch them off guard. He’d floo back and return with the car if Iece seemed okay. He wasn’t sure if it was safe to floo with her yet. He’d risk it, but not if he didn’t have to.

Turned out, laughter in Hermione’s kitchen drowned out the sound of the floo. Her living room was dim and light entered from the kitchen, where he heard the clink of glasses and a male voice. Ron’s voice.

“Serves him right. The nervous twit finally cares about something other than himself. I hear daughters do that to their Dads.” His voice was melodic, pausing, cut off by a sip. “You ladies have the right idea. Wine and pizza waiting for me. Draco should bring the baby more often.”

“He’ll be here any minute. He’s impossible. I let dinner go, since Ginny and I will be in the kitchen all morning tomorrow. Now I don’t even know if everyone will get to see her.”

“Don’t stress, Hermione.” Ginny’s voice was emphatic over Hermione’s sigh. “You didn’t do anything wrong. Manners were never his strong points.”

“Yeah, you know him. He has no idea when he’s treating someone like shit. Let’s just hope she’s nothing like him. Mum and Dad will understand.”

Draco’s jaw went tight. This was not making him feel better.

“He’s never going to trust me.” Hermione groaned and drew her voice into a whine that took Draco by surprise. She’d ever been a beacon of maturity. Now, nestled in the bosom of her boyfriend and, apparently, her new best friend Ginny, she totally let her guard down and pouted.

Draco slowly walked out into the dim room and cautiously peered at the three seated at Hermione’s table. If there was something he needed to know, if he needed to take his daughter from this place where they weren’t welcomed and he’d been a fool to think that Hermione had the confidence to raise her, he needed to know that tonight.”

“You have to give him credit for trying.” Ginny poured, refilling all their glasses. There was something Draco had always found annoying about her hair, the way it slipped in fine, perfect sheets around an otherwise plain and neutral face. Right then, it spilled from her shoulders with more grace than her tom-boyish body held in its entirety. Harry had loved her hair, and Draco liked to think that it was only because his mother had had the same kind. But it was more than that.

She was a sore spot for him. A reminder that Harry had once made plans with her. All of that shattered in the end, but every time he’d chanced to see her looking at Harry in, one of those rare moments over the years, it seemed to him that she was still holding on to the pieces. She kept them. Like maybe, if Draco screwed up badly enough, she could glue her and Harry’s world back together again. That’s why he didn’t like her. He didn’t trust her.

It shocked him where he stood, when he heard her say, “I’m sure we don’t know what it’s like for him. An only child in all those mansions. Seems so cold and lonely. She’s probably the first real warm and loving thing he’s ever had in his life, outside of Harry. Did you notice the way her little hand squeezes his collar? She obviously adores him. If he needs to cling to her, let’s not judge him.”

Ron raised his glass. “Here, Sis. Aren’t you the voice of reason all of sudden?”

“I just remember what it was like, bringing a girl home to all of you for the first time. The relief of having you accept it, especially Mum and Dad. Everyone has a past they can’t help. And everyone deserves a new beginning.” She played with the cork as she continued, rolling it between blunt fingers.

“That baby has never looked at Draco and labeled him with an ugly name. We all have. When you’re on the wrong side of it, you know how awful it feels. Sometimes I think I lost Harry to him because he needed the love the most. I have a great family, he and Harry didn’t. That baby has to mean more to him than any of us will ever know. So he’s damaged, so what. Who wouldn’t be, with a father like that? He’s proven us all wrong. He is capable of love. Let’s not hold it against him. He’ll take her tonight and let her stay a little longer each time. You shouldn’t take his insecurity as anything personal.”

Wand at the ready, Draco nearly stabbed his eye out when he covered his face with his hands. He squelched the pain and raked his hands through his hair as if her observation had no effect on him. He told himself that he was going to make a noise, cough or knock against the wall. Give them a second to know that he was present. But instead of moving into the full light of the kitchen, his body slunk back towards the darkest part of the room and found himself flooing back to his hotel. He called later to say that he’d had a change of plan and he’d pick Iece up in the morning. He wanted to try again, to make it through the night without her. He apologized. The attempt to sleep had him hating what it must be like for Harry to respect his wishes to stay away.

“All right,” said Hermione. “At least consider staying for lunch tomorrow. Ron’s family so wanted to see her again. We’re doing it early, just to make it easier for you.” She seemed surprised at the change, but resigned to wait for a call that would interrupt her sleep in the AM hours. It never came.

By the time he pulled into her drive the next day, he’d rehearsed why he couldn’t stay for the picnic meal that Hermione was hosting in her back garden. Having to be considerate of other people’s feelings was so exhausting, but he made an effort. He’d rehearsed a dozen times, and still she wore him down. Apparently, Ginny’s observation had renewed her saving-wayward-wizards champion mentality, and he could not win without being outright nasty to her. He wasn’t about to do that.

Hermione was in her element. She was stirring mashed potatoes with an apron on and exclaiming that Mrs. Weasley would be there early to help with cooking. “If Iece has to grow up in this environment, you’re not helping her by being so uncomfortable around simple family. Show her, by example, that it’s okay to relax around all of us.”

Draco held his daughter, who smelled of a fresh bath, powder, and pancake syrup from the cake-like pinches that she tried to feed him with her fingers. “Eat-eat,” she told him.

He made a distasteful face and replied to Hermione, “I can’t even relax around my own family. There’s no way she’s learning that from me.”

“When you can’t get your teenage daughter to stay and share a meal with you, you’ll regret that attitude. In my house, her first lessons will be about family. She’ll learn that I’m not the only one looking after her. We all are. That’s what family does. Give us your blessing and eat with us. She’s learning more by watching you than a thousand books could teach her. You’ve got to stay.”

He’d been unable to suppress a groan. He knew she was right, but that didn’t stop him from banging the back of his head against her wall. In abject refusal and loathing, he stared up at her spackled ceiling while Iece smeared syrup over his cheek. It was either bang his head or stomp, and he couldn’t let her see him do that.

Her house filled with more Weasley’s as the morning wore on. They all wanted a turn holding “Harry’s baby.” They all brought children with them that Draco didn’t recognize. Draco hardly knew what to do with himself when Mrs. Weasley shooed him out of the kitchen and told him to make conversation with the grownups like a big boy. He found a corner and let the children run past him, stepping on his feet. It turned out that, from across the room, the Weasley clan had enough stories and treasured memories to fill the time with fairly entertaining tales of growing up, taming dragons, and new career ventures, that he was not in as much pain as he’d anticipated. Everyone was civil towards him and for that, he kept his mouth shut.

George Weasely made an attempt to engage him by asking how things were going with Harry and the tour. The entire room paused for the soul excuse to let Draco participate in the conversation. His reply, “Smashing,” was met with impressed expressions. He surmised that they were more impressed that he was being friendly, than anything else. He decided that was fair enough. Outdoors, lunch was served at a covered picnic table. Draco was given the honor of being seated across from Mr. Weasley, who winked at him but did it with a stern expression on his face. It was only when he chose to play with his grandchildren, that his mask slipped and Draco witnessed his goofy smile burst forth as he showed them silly tricks with coins, that muggles mistook for actual magic.

Draco made it through another hour before he had to hide in the bathroom to keep from saying rude, inappropriate things out of endurance fatigue. He didn’t see the point of talking when there was nothing more interesting to say. Give him an objective, and he could speak all day, but pointless conversation was mind numbing when there was nothing to be gained but people liking you, or not, as the case may be. He didn’t know how to handle so much family and so much sheer interest in one another. He needed a reprieve.

Instead of being insulted, Hermione’s thin arm slipped a drink to him through the bathroom door. “That’s the only one you get since you’re driving with her.” She also offered him the TV in her bedroom. “Thank you for trying. We’ll make it as painless as possible. I know this doesn’t come easy to you.”

He suspected that she’s doing it for Ron. He refuses to enter a bedroom that she shares with Ron, and tries not to think about his daughter having slept innocently there. When his drink his gone, he finds another corner downstairs and attracts the attention of a little girl playing with a skinny, long-haired doll. She appears to be be several years older than Iece and her caramel skin hints that she’s a playmate to one of the grandchildren, brought along but not necessarily related. He couldn’t be sure. Her lavender dress makes him think he saw Charlie Weasley holding her on his lap before, as if she were a prized he’d won at the fair. Either she was his, or he really had a passion for kids. She looks up at him with bright, hazel eyes and points to his head. “You har pitty.”

For the life of him, he has no idea what she means. Ginny Weasley swoops her up, reading his confusion before carrying the child off. “Your hair is pretty,” she translates, kissing the child’s cheek and disappearing into her relatives.

Oh. He supposed it was.

He has never seen so much love in one room. It unsettles the food he’s trying to keep on his stomach. It wasn’t natural.

He and Ron managed to avoid each other until early evening. They both escaped the noise in preference to the side of the house where steps led to an added, screened-in room filled with plants and wicker furniture. Without even asking, Draco knew the room must’ve been some kind of reading sanctuary for Hermione. Judging by the way it skewed, by the way the steps were uneven and bare wood still needed painting, he had to wonder if Ron hadn’t built the addition himself, in some horrific romantic gesture.

Having spotted each other, it was too late to turn and run. They weren’t kids anymore and Ron decided to be the mature one first. “You’re looking all right these days. Thanks for coming by. It means a lot to Hermione.”

“Yes, well, she was very persuasive.”

“Wears you down, doesn’t she?”

It was easy to give an honest smile to that. “Bossy, is how I’d put it.”

“That’s my girl,” Ron agreed. When they were silent for too long, he blurted, “Sorry we lost touch with you guys. Harry wasn’t speaking to us. We didn’t know how to help him...”

Draco was quick. “Stop. Don’t bring it up, this is hard enough as it is. Besides, it’s okay. Harry didn’t know if he was going to survive all of that. He pushed everyone he loved away. You didn’t do anything wrong. None of us could make it like it never happened.”

“At least he kept you. How’d you manage that when no one else could?”

Draco stopped looking at the shoddy work on the house and looked directly at Ron. Lowering sunlight brought out the copper in Ron’s hair and erased most of the dark circles under his eyes. “You know how. You know why. I had to make up for what my father did, or die trying. I had no idea that Harry and I would still be talking to each other.”

Ron nodded. Draco could clearly see that his heart wasn’t into it. After two years, that’s as far as either of them can go on the topic. The good thing is, they don’t need to go any further. They don’t need words to make them feel better, or to cover up the past. Perhaps there were things they did need to discuss, but that could wait. Just standing there, in the shadow of their friendship with Harry, was more than enough for them to handle at the moment.

He didn’t know how he did it, but he’d spent a whole day with the Weasleys and he vowed never to do it again. It was almost dark when he said good-bye to Hermione and strapped Iece in her seat. He planned on catching a late flight, but never made it to the airport. On the A4 to Heathrow, the car lost power inexplicably.

Draco didn’t have to know how the muggle contraption worked, to know that something was wrong. He felt the engine decelerate and had time to exit out of traffic before it stopped altogether. Nothing on the dash hinted of a malfunction. He looked at Iece sleeping in her seat, grabbed his wand and opened the car door to see what he could spell into working under the hood. He knew basics, unwilling to get behind the wheel of a car without information on the mysterious parts under the bonnet. He knew he could fix an issue with the battery. He could also call for assistance, but none of it was worth his time if outright magic could solve the problem.

The door pushed itself closed before he had the chance to step out. All the doors locked and the car’s engine started to hum even though the ignition was turned off. The vehicle vibrated into motion. When it started forward, continuing down the ramp, away from the main road, Draco knew this wasn’t a malfunction. It was a hijacking. A magical one.

He undid his seat belt, stretched back and wrestled Iece out of her car seat. Pulling her into his arms, he wondered if it would’ve been safer to keep her strapped in. As the car rolled freely into traffic, without his stirring or consent, he tried using every spell he knew to get it to stop. Muscles tensed by panic, he squeezed her too hard against him and she began to cry. He watched helplessly as the car drove itself too close to the others, switching lanes and swerving to do the will of someone controlling it from the outside. They had to have a visual on the car, Draco told himself. If they’d wanted to crash him, they could’ve done it already. His magic wouldn’t work, so he was dealing with someone very powerful. Someone who had, perhaps, shielded the car to be unresponsive to his magic. He couldn’t so much as use his phone, let alone his wand. All he could do was hold on to Iece and try to comfort her. No doubt her hysteria was in reaction to protests that he did not voice, in the grip of alarm himself.

There had to be a limit to this magic. It was sabotage. He glanced at the muggle watch he shared with Harry and willed it to light red. It remained black. His magic wouldn’t work in this possessed car. Looking out onto the the road ahead, he noted that the car maintained a legal speed. He wondered if he could get the attention of another driver. The windows were tinted, and even if he could, he risked causing a major catastrophe if he freaked one of them out while moving like this. Who could possibly have this much control, or interest in kidnapping him? No, not him, Harry’s daughter.

Suddenly, he pushed his brain into high gear. What was it for if it couldn’t get them out of this! His training had prepared him to use magic to defend himself. If his magic was rendered ineffective, he had no power against others who did have magic. His stomach lurched with every swerve of the car and he gripped Iece tighter. He squeezed his eyes closed, fighting for an idea, for Harry, for Jipsy, for anyone with the magical ability to hear him. If he couldn’t use magic at all, that probably meant that his couldn’t be detected through whatever barrier controlled access to the car.

But a split-second later, a squeaky elf voice sounded from the back seat. “You summoned Jipsy, Sir?”

Draco still wasn’t used to having Jipsy around. In his relief, it occurred to him that she was severely under utilized. But when he had to be around muggles, she’d only complicate things. Now he needed her and he didn’t dare hide the fact that he was grateful she’d come. “Thank Merlin! Jipsy, your magic works in this car. Can you stop it?”

“My magic works. I can try.”

“Get it safely to the side. Mind the muggles behind us,” he quickly amended. Her child-sized head bobbed with trinkets and painted things as she focused. When it took longer than five seconds, and the car was still moving, he knew she was struggling. Elf magic rarely struggled, that’s why they were so indispensable.

“My magic works,” she assure him. “But they are fighting me. They are wizards with elves, Sir, like me.”

Again, Draco tried to imagine who would be doing this. “Can you break their hold? Shield us? Just for a second. If you can, I can apparate her out of here.”

But Jipsy would have to stay and hold their attackers off, or they’d just follow him. Anyone who could control the car from such a distance, would have to be able to trace his apparation trail. He might not be able to use magic inside the car, but if he escaped it, surely he’d escape whatever influence this was. The car was hexed, not him. Iece might get sick, but that was preferable to getting her stolen right out of his arms.

She strained. He saw little veins pop to the surface of her bald scalp and felt a wave of anger that he was being forced to ask her to fight on his behalf. This was mistreatment of a house elf. He had no idea how many she was up against. “Wait. Stop.” If she couldn’t stop their magic, she couldn’t stop them from preventing his apparation with Iece. He couldn’t chance it while they were in control. The thought of splinching her, wouldn’t even let his mind consider it.

Jipsy’s eyes opened and she looked up at him. He couldn’t read her expression. She simply looked like she was awaiting his next instructions. The car was off the main road now and turning into a gravel lot. He noted how it slowed, maneuvering past rows of other cars, even stopping to let another pull out. Whomever had control of the car, was being awfully careful. They intended to bring the child to them as unharmed as possibly. Maybe they’d kill him, but they weren’t risking any harm to her.

He had an idea. “Just concentrate on putting a barrier around the three of us, not the car. Let it be our own space. Maybe we can isolate ourselves from their magic. If you can hold it around us, I might be able to use my magic.”

The car turned, edging around a tight corner, into the narrow entrance of a parking garage. Evening light was lost to creepy garage darkness. Sensors in the car brought its headlights on, providing some relief as Draco kept track of each level it climbed inside the confines. The higher it went, the fewer cars appeared. There were no people to speak of and at the very top of the garage, it came to a stop. The whole time, Draco kept his wand low to the seat, waiting to see if he could make a faint light at the tip. If he could, that meant Jipsy’s barrier was working. It gave him back the use of his magic.

Two figures stepped out of the dark. Their control shut his headlights down. They remained silhouettes, shadows, but he saw them walking towards the car. There was something familiar about one of them. Against the seat, his wand tip glowed. He turned to Jipsy. She had to stay behind to keep them from following. Iece squirmed but he clutched her against himself. “Hold them off for as long as you can. I’m coming back for you.”

With that, he was gone, taking his child with him.

***

Harry’s lecture was about to start. The Minister was introducing him and he’d already started making his way towards the stage when Draco arrived. He’d been asked to meet a few people, sign a few autographs, and hadn’t found anything resembling a dressing room in the wings of the stage. Just more guest speakers, refreshments, and someone snapping his picture every time he turned around. The lights were still up in the tent, so everyone saw Draco’s appearance. They saw his stricken expression as he thrust the child into Harry’s arms, nearly causing them both to trip over chairs in the isle. Those closest, heard is words very clearly. “You have to take her, we’re in trouble.” Those who were further away, locked onto the shape of his lips and read them. “I can’t tell you anything. Take her, I’ll be back!”

“Draco, what the hell?” The child whimpered on Harry’s chest and clung to him. The audience around him gasped at her one weak word, “Da-dee.” They had never heard her voice before.

“I’m sorry, I know this sucks. Something’s happening. Keep her safe, I’ll be right back, I promise.”

He disapparated without giving Harry anymore of an answer than that. Harry’s mouth gaped, at first in concern, then in exasperation. Then in anger. The fancily dressed people around him were getting an unexpected show. He moved, stunned, with his daughter, as cameras began flashing around him. People seemed to leap out in front of him to get the shot they wanted. It slowed his progress to the stage and he had no idea what he was going to do when he got there. They all saw what had just happened.

Canceling the lecture due to this strange emergency, was on the tip of his tongue. He couldn’t be expected to hold her while he attempted to engage the audience. He wouldn’t go through with it. Seems Banks was getting the photo he’d wanted after all, and Harry was royally pissed by the time he got to the stage. He was so thrown by Draco’s behavior, he wasn’t thinking of the talisman he’d made with Thella. He wasn’t anywhere in the vicinity of love and if anyone got in his face right now, there’d be no way for him to hide it.

“Ladies and gentle wizards, I must ask that you refraim from taking pictures. This is an unexpected event and a show of respect for Harry’s family is appreciated.”

This made Harry stop and take in Banks on the stage. That was actually a pretty decent thing to do, whether it worked or not. Flashes diminished, wands casting photogenic charms, as well as cell phones, dropped out of sight. The announcement didn’t suppress all the activity, just most of it. The Minister drove his point home. “We don’t want a repeat of the cowardly invasion of privacy that has already attempted to tarnish this tour and Mr. Potter’s reputation. Family happens, we can all relate to that.”

Harry made a cutting-off gesture in front of his throat. It was his way of saying he couldn’t go on stage. He shifted his daughter and felt another person gently pulling her beside him. He heard soft words, “May I?” and looked to see Thella, shawl covering her head, as she requested to hold Iece for him.

There was no one else in the room Harry felt comfortable giving his child to. In that moment, she was like an angel to him. From the way she coaxed his unhappy daughter out of his arms, to the way she removed her shawl and threw it over Iece’s entire body. It billowed, and Iece’s head was on her shoulder before it settled around her. Harry knew that it was a sleeping spell and he was too grateful to be upset about it. Thella seemed to know exactly what to do. She took his baby and went back to her seat in the third row. Now no one could take pictures. Now he’d be able to keep his eye on her the whole time. It didn’t make up for Draco’s behavior, but it gave him a leg to stand on. He took reassurance from her nod and turned towards the stage. As he made his way to the podium, the audience applauded his decision to stay.

* * *

A/N:  If you're enjoying this story, I would love to hear from you. :-)


	15. Confronted

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harry gives his audience a show.

After that awkward start, he needed a moment to remember his presentation. He actually needed a moment to recover, but he hid is distraction behind professional etiquette and stammered until his subject came back to him. “Thank you, and sorry for that bit of unscheduled activity,” he apologized.

He ended up thanking the Minister, the sponsors, and every one who had a hand in putting the tour together. After making his standard, and this time redundant, introduction, he launched into his presentation.

At first they listened politely, but they’d already tasted blood. The mistake of allowing this audience to see a glimpse of his real life, had them hungry for unexpected excitement. They were too riled up now, too anticipatory to settle for a schoolroom lecture. Draco’s appearance, his hurried flourish of action, his unguarded appeal to Harry, had captured their imaginations. His daughter clinging to him, had stolen the show.

His was a forty minute time slot to run through the highlights of his best information. Later tour dates would allow him longer presentations, but tonight was just part of the opening ceremony. He began with his first impressions of the people who would later become key players in his time at Hogwarts, and eventually the day the school was left in ruins. As he talked about Dumbledore, McGonagall, and Professor Snape, and the journey he’d taken with them, he cast their images between himself and the audience and summarized the parts they had played. Eventually his nerves settled and he felt the restlessness within the audience calm to appreciate the vividness of what he was able to show them.

Not everyone in the room had heard of Hogwarts. International travelers, generations apart, beheld glimpses of school life on castle grounds before Voldemort’s return and after. Harry took them through the history as seamlessly as he could summarize and still make it meaningful. He introduced them to Hagrid, the half-giant. He showed them Quidditch to balance out scenes of carnage. He showed them Dumbledor’s Army, Ministry prophecies, and the duel that broke his heart between Snape and the current Headmistress. It broke his heart for the hundredth time, but he felt he had to show it. If anything could prove that he wasn’t here to gloss over what had happened, it was that brief fight burned into his mind. How wrong they’d all been. It was one of the safest combat scenes he could show them. Other, harsher scenes were not suitable for this crowd. He gave them exactly three seconds of Voldemort’s deadliest gaze upon him in the forest, and no more. Just to make it real to them. He closed by giving tribute to Snape.

“Some of us stepped up when the fight came to us. But this wizard, no matter how you feel about him, risked his life everyday to make Voldemort believe he was a Death Eater and that he hated me. I lost count of how many times he saved my life, and how many hoops he jumped through to get Dumbledor the information he wanted. He had the courage to be disliked. To be judged. And he outlasted and out fought the whole lot of us. We only did it for a few short years. He’d done it half his life. So please remember that real heroes don’t look picture perfect. Sometimes, they don’t look or act like anything we’d expect at all. Thank you, and I hope to see you at my next lecture.”

Applause was ample, but they didn’t let him off the stage so fast. “Harry, can you take a few questions?”

Several audience members shouted this request at the same time. He’d forgotten about questions. “Um, sure, I’ve got time for a few.”

A witch displaying her journalist credentials, stood up. “That was marvelous! You were recently involved in the train derailment in Dungarven. Can you comment on whether that was actually another attack on your life? Are you still being targeted by Death Eaters?”

“Or better,” a man behind her shouted. “Use your wand to show us what happened on that bloody train. No one’s been arrested and seventy-one people are dead. If you can show us bloody battles at Hogwarts, you can show the authorities some freaking clues.”

Murmurs of agreement washed over the crowd. It took Harry back, but he exchanged glances with the Minister and had an answer for that. “I was involved in that incident. It’s true. However, I’ve given my statements to the investigators. I’ve even shown them my memories and they’ve been ruled inconclusive, so they’re not going to do much good here. I didn’t see anything, so I don’t have anything to show you.”

“Did your recent hospitalization have anything to do with the incident?” This came from the other side of the room, from a wizard in burgundy robes and a turban. “The two incidents were spaced a week apart. Some say political extremists are still after you and are perfectly willing to murder innocent people around you. You seem confident that this is not the case. Can you be sure?”

“I wouldn’t be standing here if I thought I was any kind of a target like that. Are there any questions about the lecture itself?”

“Mr. Potter, Draco Malfoy’s appearance with your daughter tonight, makes two high profile incidents this week. You’re normally a very private family, can you tell us if he means to carry out his threats to purchase the O’Hair Plaza and sack every one there?”

“I literally have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“It just seems like a rash threat for a Death Eater, acquitted of his crimes, to make.”

“Former Death Eater,” Harry corrected this new person in the back.

“Presumably. What happened in the hotel that caused the controversial photo in the first place? No one still knows that story and Mr. Malfoy seems hellbent on keeping it hush. Can you share anything? And does any of it relate to Mr. Malfoy’s interruption tonight?”

Harry’s throat was starting to close on his anger. Before he even knew why, he was telling them more truth than they deserved. “I passed out two days ago and I don’t know why. It might’ve been related to train injuries, I don’t know. I haven’t spoken to Draco since then, until tonight, so no, there’s no big secret as to why he’s making threats. He probably just doesn’t like horrible pictures of his friends showing up on the front page, is all.”

He knew he shouldn’t take their bait, but it came from a desire to make things simple so they’d drop it. Something couldn’t be a mystery if it was out in the open. But no one seemed to want to talk about his lecture. They wanted to make it personal.

“Then you admit, your relationship with Draco is more than supportive. You’ve allowed the media to think that you’re helping him raise his child. It’s fair to say that you’re a couple. Critics of Draco Malfoy believe he has something else to hide, and this is why his threats are so strong. Are you aware of the allegations that his refusal to undergo a blood test with his daughter, was the only thing that kept him from going to prison?”

The Minister jumped in, “Madam you are completely out of line. That has nothing to do with –”

Harry waved to silence him. “I won’t play this game. Draco and I have already been on trial. So unless you have questions pertaining to the lecture, I’m done here.”

“Your testimony, your friends, and a sympathetic jury, allowed a Death Eater to walk free. What would a blood test show of your daughter’s parentage?”

Harry looked from the woman to Thella’s empty chair. Thank god, she was already on her feet and walking out of the tent with Iece. Whatever threats Draco had made, he had evidently aroused old arguments against himself. “Ms., I don’t know what you’ve heard, but this lecture is over.”

“I’ve heard, Mr. Potter, that the truth of that child’s parentage, would’ve changed the entire outcome of the trials. I’ve heard that Draco Malfoy is no more the birth-father of that little girl than I am. I’ve heard that evidence is mounting against your character, that you suffer severe depression for all the lies you’ve told, that sent innocent people to prison, and kept murderers from going. That two days ago, the incident at O’Hair was a suicide attempt, one of many, and that the little girl you’re both raising, is your birth-daughter, not Draco’s.”

Harry narrowed his focus on the woman. Above her tweed collar and tight dark curls, her mouth cracked with age lines all around it, exactly like a dry riverbed. She looked at him with steel in her eyes and her smile challenged him to call her a liar. He couldn’t read the name on her badge, but noted that she stood with a barrage of supporters who cheered her every accusation.

The audience fell silent, taking in their confrontation greedily. Harry went from giving an older lady her chance to speak, to wanting to hex the bitch into next week. He couldn’t hide it. He couldn’t deny how deeply her accusations went, but he was damned if he’d admit to it. Not like this. He knew, for some, his expression gave him away. She’d struck hidden gold. He could still tip the balance. No matter how the trials had ended, people knew a high stakes hunt when they saw one, and that was always more interesting than solid convictions. She wouldn't have gone after him if she didn’t know something.

He pulled her name from her mind. “Tally Dellaway, you’ve been collecting evidence against me for a long time. Even when you had to manufacture it.”

She stood her ground, blanching only a little at the use of her real name, which she had not written on her badge. “Answer the question, Mr. Potter. You’re a war veteran, your every lecture demonstrates your honor. Who is the real father of that child?”

That was all she had to do. Put the question out there. Make it public. Her job was done. Harry spent the next few seconds burning through the information in her mind. They had wanted to see a train on fire, he’d show them a goddamn train on fire.

He withdrew his wand and cast it. He threw her thoughts, not his, out into the air for all to see. Even he was not prepared for what they showed. Recent faces in the news, a missing ambassador and chemist, slid lifelessly to the floor of a truck stop toilet. Disguises were tossed into incinerators. Syringes made of biodegradable gelatin, melted in rain and sewage where she disposed of them.

She took off her wig, staring at her reflection in a hotel mirror. Polyjuice wore off, revealing her height to be five inches taller, her hair to be cropped and brown, and her body to be male. He, Tally, reached for a broom and suddenly he was airborne and flying over the path of a train. A familiar train. Though no one in the tent had ever seen the snake-like locomotion from the vantage point of looking down on it, everyone knew whose eyes they were seeing it through, and which train it was. Tally flew with others. Others who looked like Death Eaters but bore no tattoos. They streaked their black-smoked apparitions across the sky. They swarmed the rear of the train. No wands ever showed themselves, but rear wheels and chassis glowed red from a concentration of heat.

The last two cars popped like exploding cans and were thrown through clouds of fire that turned every stunned face watching it, red. Each succeeding car burst into flames and tore loose. From overhead, it was easy to see them flying off the rails as fire ate its way up the train and the trestle crumpled beneath it. Even Talley, stood mesmerized by his work, and the way Harry’s magic revealed it to the world. Harry’s mind couldn’t help but contribute what he knew of the same scene. What he knew from an entirely different vantage point, from his seat inside the train.

The audience had wanted to see his memories. He showed them. This time, the sky went black and the end of the train ignited, burning into a fiery tail that chased each car until it got to him. It was a series of engulfments that happened so fast, he was already dead and gone by the time Tally taped a tiny camera to the button hole of his blouse and pressed a remote that zoomed in on Harry’s face, chest, and shorts, taking pictures.

When Tally passed in front of the mirror this time, he wore an ambulance driver’s uniform and injected something into Harry’s arm before his partner noticed. There were other things Harry could’ve shown, but they’d all seen enough as the room span out of control around him. Magical law enforcement secured the exits, restraining Tally and his supporters. Harry was slow to adjust to the fact that he’s been attacked three times this week, all of which would’ve resulted in his death, had Snape not done something, given him some kind of protection and immunity. This murdering wizard had actually injected him, possibly with the same poison that killed the missing ambassador and chemist. Whatever that injection contained, it had been preferable to using as spell. Why?

In the tent, people ran to clear space for the onslaught of magical law enforcement who entered. Harry saw members of the CIUM, including the white-haired Admiral. Minister Banks grabbed him and pulled him away from the podium, destroying the last of the projection that was already fleeting from the air. A blast of wand fire was short lived as aurors quickly took over and subdued the instigators who weren't going without a fight.

This was horrible. This was a hellish disaster, and it was all his fault. Responsibility held him to his spot. He ducked from flying hexes, but it was the Minister’s pull on his arm that jerked him into the wings of the stage. People ran into him trying to get out of the way. He gripped his wand, but Banks steadied his hand.

“They’ve got this, Harry. You’ve already given these people what they want to see. Don’t make another move.”

His words were backed by strength in his grip. Bank’s hands were shaking. They were almost violent, locking Harry into a restricted pose, confusing him. He wasn’t the one who needed restraining. When men wearing CIUM suits and badges took hold of Harry, he understood that Banks had made a point of getting him under control before they did. He felt his wand wrestled from his grasp and both arms held securely as he was marched through the inner panels of the tent.

“Let go! Where are you taking me?”

No one answered him. Banks was not allowed to follow and Harry looked back, watching the Minister stare. He wore a look of helplessness, as if all his power could not prevent Harry from having to endure this indignity.

 

***

 

Ash’s mouth hung open. He’d learned so much from the boy at the podium. Correction, Foster’s Harry Potter. And Foster’s true identity. Professor Severus Snape. He’d seen him, a solid apparition cast from the boy’s wand, into a massive, vaulted corridor of stone masonry, so clear and vivid and life-sized, that Ash could’ve stepped into it. Medieval torches cast long shadows, and a flourish of billowing black robes and hair, sent Ash’s imagination reeling.

This was a school? A real school for magic people? That was his Foster, careening like impending doom through the ranks of teenage students and children. He looked grim and unsmiling. No surprise there. That was his Foster standing in front of a class, wrapped in layers that concealed the build of a man far more agile that his stiff demeanor let on. That was Foster fighting a duel with an older woman. A real witch. Rather more regal and dignified than portrayed in childhood stories. And that was Foster, with blood pouring from his throat as the boy held him and, strangely, collected his tears in a vial. And that was Foster dead, with his eyes open. Only Ash knew it wasn’t.

He almost hadn’t gotten into the show. He didn’t have the credentials, but an appeal to Mediwizard, Avi Rankar, a reminder of how he’d helped the CIUM, and had asked for nothing in return, got him tickets to Harry’s lecture and an an activated charm that let him see and experience the goings on of the wizard festival. It was a twenty-four hour pass and he wasn’t going to miss a second of it.

When the change happened, when he took one of the wafers and put on the special sunglasses Avi sent to him, his vision had opened to another world entirely. There were now buildings in places he thought were empty lots. There were young people he thought were homeless, wearing splendid robes and carrying wands. Seniors at the retirement village were flying on brooms and throwing balls through giant hoops. It was like a hidden world within the normal world. It was all so great. The wafer and glasses had come with a note: Observe only! Do not interfere with anything you see.

Got it. If the wafer contained hallucinogenic properties, if this was all a joke, then he was a sucker because it was all so real. It was like getting something he never knew he wanted. Proof that there was more to life, proof that there was a better way, proof that undocumented wonders still existed for those who wanted them strongly enough. Those willing to risk their sanity. He’d driven around all day before the lecture, just looking into places he thought empty before, taking in the wonders, including the sight of his neighbors. With his new sight, he saw that some homes had strange crests on their fronts. He understood that these were signals to other magical folks. Stones arranged on the grass, advertised very specific information about the families living there. Here, villagers had made themselves known to one another and remained hidden to those who were not magic. He tried to memorize everything he saw, knowing he would not have this amazing vision forever.

At the lecture, the sight of Harry astonished him. There was something about having seen the boy as dead as he would ever see him, knowing what Foster had done to save him, and then having him walk right past Ash’s chair to the podium. Harry Potter was thrilling. On his feet and walking around perfectly alive, he came across as a sturdy young man in spite of his compact size. Still too much boy in the man, which wouldn’t let Ash get past calling him that. With his five o’clock shadow and thin glasses, there was a strain in his face. Behind his polite smile, it spoke of inner battles not meant for the public eye. It spoke of youth being more of a hindrance than a help. It showed strain, as if the boy were a question away from saying what he really thought and shutting the place down. Turns out, Ash had guessed it right.

Harry was a little too ruffled to be clean-cut. The unexpected surprise of seeing the little girl thrust into his arms by the other young man, the shock of the crowd, the gossip running rampant around Ash, all added to his unfolding delight. The day seemed to have no boundaries, no edges, and no end to the newness of magic and information. The wafer had most certainly been a drug that tore down barriers in his brain, and the glasses brought it all into focus somehow, translated it into meaning. He still didn’t know what certain things meant, the colorful lights he saw around people, and the glowing letters and symbols that sometimes looked like projections into their personal space. It didn’t matter. He was here. He had made it into this awesome world and was finally seeing reality for the first time. There was no going back. Even if the wafer wore off, he could not forget this.

He’d settled into the lecture, into his seat, so comfortably in spite of being a man of no magic among wizards and witches. He’d been so eager to hear what Foster’s rescue project had to say, that when the wizards began to fire at one another, the weapons didn’t faze him. It looked like a magical laser show to him. He was slow to drop to the floor, to scamper out of the way, like everyone else. His mind was racing to piece together Foster’s past, from everything the boy had shown them. He didn’t want to miss a thing.

By the time it occurred to him to take cover, and he peeked out into a tent full of smoke and stampeding wizards, Harry was gone. On his hands and knees, Ash followed everyone else out and let himself be ushered onto a grassy area with the rest. They were quarantined and held for hours. Instead of being upset by it all, Ash relished being counted among them, kept his mouth shut, and learned what he could.

* * *

A/N: If you're enjoying yourself, I would love to know.  Thanks for all the kudos and comments! :-)


	16. Asassins and In-Laws

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In-laws are scarier than death threats.

The idea of having restraining spells used against him, kept Harry calm. He had to keep his head. But he wanted them to know he hadn’t meant to trigger that kind of evidence, much less show it to a crowd of innocent people.

“I have no idea what just happened. I know I caused it, but I didn’t plan on all of that. I’ve never pulled that much information from someone else before. I don’t know what’s going on. Please!”

It was an appeal to be handled with respect, and not like a criminal. An aged and throaty voice from behind said, “Let him go.”

Harry, and all four of his escorts, turned to see the Admiral trailing them. A team of official-looking people walked a pace behind him.

“Mr. Potter, sorry for the misunderstanding. You haven’t done anything wrong. We’re trying to get you out of harm’s way. I must ask that you leave with us, portkey to another location. You’re not under arrest, but we need as much information from your wand, and your mind, as possible.”

“My daughter...”

“Is quite safe. Ms. Thella Majorie has also been removed from the premises. When our agents are finished with arrests and have swept the area, you’ll both be back before midnight. The ladies are with a secure escort at the moment, just like you. You have my word.”

Words meant nothing, when panic blossomed in Harry’s chest the way that it did. Everything was happening too fast to trust anything. “What is this, what just happened?”

“I’ll explain what I can. We need to move fast if you want to get back to your daughter as quickly as possible.”

He placed a giant and gentle hand on Harry’s shoulder. “Portkey’s this way.”  
The instant transportation was a nasty one. Harry didn’t know if it was because he hadn’t been feeling well, or if it had something to do with the erratic state of his mind, but he woke up with a foul-smelling tincture being held under his nose. It was a smell so painful, that his brain recoiled, jerking him conscious.

When his vision cleared from watering eyes, this is what he saw. White floor, white room, white table, white chairs. Grey steel door exit. The kind with the tiny square pane of glass with lines crisscrossing inside the glass.

People in dark suits surrounded him and appeared to wait on his recovery. Someone gave him water and helped him into a chair. By the time his head cleared and his stomach eased up, there were only four people in the room. Himself, the Admiral, and two guards stationed at the door. His wand lay on the table beside him.

“Where am I?”

“A secret facility in North America.”

He nodded. He understood the other’s clipped words, and resounding silence, to mean that he was not going to be privileged with more information than that. International travel. Maybe that’s why the jump was so harsh on his body. Before he had time to question his safety, or his return, the Admiral began explaining things.

“We wanted you to withhold train information from the civilian populace. We examined your memories, but we didn’t know if something we’ve overlooked held any advantage to any of your audience members. We didn’t want to give away evidence. So when you pulled so much potential evidence from that woman’s mind, we are now forced to rethink our strategy.”

“Who was that, uh, woman?”

“You and I both know that’s no woman. And I can’t reveal classified information. However, I want to pose a question to you that could get you all the information you want. In fact, if you cooperate with me, you’ll have access to banks of resources. We know that you’re looking for something. Someone.”

The statement activated Harry’s poker face. He sat up, folded his arms, then uncrossed them, suspecting it was a giveaway.

“Don’t worry, Mr. Potter. Your former professor is in hiding because he wants to be. Not because he’s a criminal. His name was sufficiently cleared during the trials and his _Identity Indenturement_ is perfectly legal, to protect his life. Those were pretty high stakes in the war and more lives were saved than destroyed by his decisions. Severus Snape deserves his anonymity. His privacy. It’s no different than the muggle version of a witness protection program and assuming a new identity.”

Harry’s mouth fell open. “You’re admitting it. He’s alive. Isn’t that classified information?”

“It is. Since the day you found new evidence linking this wizard to saving your life, and withheld it, we toyed with letting you in on this much. I’m only confirming what you’ve figured out for yourself. We know this information is valuable to you, and it is being used to barter your assistance in an investigation. Under the laws of Identity Indenturement, you can be prosecuted for revealing what I am telling you in complete confidence, and you are being trusted to tell no one. Think of it as a gift and respect his new identity. He did not go through the legality of muggle channels, but presented his case in magical covenants. His magic is of a quality that can protect its own integrity.”

“What does that mean?”

“It means, we don’t know how to find him. We can only trace his apparation signature so far, and if he does it multiple times in succession, we can’t trace him at all. He wrote his own privacy spells around his physical person, spells the CIUM and your Ministry have never even heard of. The spells keep him invisible, and as long as he isn’t breaking any laws, we have no reason to breech any blood magic he has put into place around himself.”

Should Harry say something about Snape’s tampering with wreckage evidence? “Am I in trouble for keeping evidence to myself?”

“It’s not a mark against you. Just be aware that you cannot store undocumented human remains at Gringotts without alerting some inquiry. And it only confirmed for us that you were determined to hunt down answers, just as much as we were. All we had to do was follow you.”

The Admiral admitted, “You are known for successfully confronting your enemies. Since infancy. Your magic is studied. We had a feeling that all we had to do was follow you, and you would lead us to the people responsible for this atrocity. Your magic has a characteristic. It wants justice. It will fight even when you are too tired to do so. We watched you comb the bogs and moors in Dungarven, looking for evidence that didn’t fit with our story. You led us to more wreckage. Real wreckage, not doctored to look authentic.”

So, was Snape in trouble for tampering with a crime scene? “Do you know who doctored the wreckage and saved those survivors?”

“Do you?”

He had to be careful. Just because they knew Snape was alive, didn’t mean they knew about his involvement in the wreckage. “That’s what I want to find out.”

“Is that why you kept the fragment of arm? It was evidence that needed to be turned in.”

Fucking goblins. Had they tested it? Had they uncovered who it belonged to, and the Admiral was just sizing Harry up to test his trustworthiness? The goblins had encouraged him to believe that Snape’s death cover up was illegal, and had tricked him out of his blood to get information.

“Whoever saved those people, is not the criminal you’re looking for. I saw no harm in tracking down the person, or persons, who saved me. I wanted to have it tested and possibly traced to the last person who had anything to do with it.”

“That person is our strongest known link to the catastrophe. Why was he there? Why did he mislead us with the replacement of your body?”

Okay. They were talking in circles. “Is Snape in trouble or not?”

“If it’s proven that he was the one responsible for moving you, that does look suspicious and warrants questioning. If it’s proven that he’s the one who saved those thirty-one survivors, then we will approach his interrogation a little more cautiously. Either way, we have evidence to support that the crime had nothing to do with him. His involvement centered around you, but we need him to confirm that on record.”

“You don’t know where he is?”

“Since he makes appearances for you, we were hoping you’d lead us right to him. He’s not a suspect, but we do need his cooperation.”

He gave Harry a minute to process this, before adding. “This is only one reason why we want to make you a proposition. The other is that we need your wand. You have some experience in hunting criminal wizards. You turned down an auror apprenticeship, yet you are a veteran of the war and faced Death Eaters single handedly. You have the stomach for this kind of work. I’d like to offer you training and a position in our organization. After what I’ve seen tonight, your ability to legiliment with your wand, and pull evidence directly from the source, is the kind of advantage we need in our organization. You would not be asked to take on a detective role unless you wanted to train for it. But our immediate plans for you would entail using your abilities to help interrogate criminals like Tally. You wouldn’t have to get your hands dirty. You’d simply come in behind our questioning and lay the suspect’s mind bare. You’d leave. You’d be back home in time for dinner. And you’d have credentials that would give you access to certain data banks of information on former teachers. Think it over, don’t answer now.”

Stunned, Harry listened as the Admiral volunteered information on Tally.

“The only thing we know about your accusers tonight, is that they are a mixture of activists with only a few petty crimes between them. The instigator, Tally rallied their support by promising to expose corruption in the Ministry. His real goals are about making key figures disappear. He works for an organization hidden deep in global reform and mass terrorism.”

Before Harry could ask, he answered.

“Yes, he’s a murderer and he tried to kill you several nights back. We didn’t know that until tonight. We can’t always see you. You’re rather like that Snape fellow, we lose track of your magical signature. Your picture on the front page of the Prophet, was supposed to be the last one you ever took, and something of a souvenir. He was rather proud of that. Imagine your killer’s surprise when you lived, again.”

There was no satisfaction in hearing that.

“We already have security around you, but we’re dealing with advanced technology and wizards. Not a great combination. If you join us, we can protect your family better.”

Yet you couldn’t prevent that injection, Harry thought. “I didn’t think I was an actual target. Just someone in the way.”

“Tally has a certain psychological profile. We think it became personal when you didn’t die the first time. And the second time really made him sore. Even among wizards, that’s a bad omen. He’s bored with thankless accomplishments. There’s no telling how many successful missions and assassinations he has under his belt. It’s not enough anymore. He wants some of the satisfaction of seeing the world react to his art. In his own twisted way, he wants to be appreciated for what he’s good at. You drew him out into the open, and that may have just been his downfall.”

The weight of it all forced Harry to close his eyes. How was he going to lay all this on Draco? It affected his freedom to come and go too.

“Am I still a target or not?”

“Now that we have your attacker, we simply don’t know for certain. We’re hoping our investigation will uncover that. And we’re hoping we’ll get your help. Think about what I’ve said. The closer you work with us, the safer your family will be.”

My family’s safety isn’t your responsibility. It’s mine. He kept this to himself, knowing it was nothing more than dangerous pride and his daughter didn’t need that.

He listened as best as he could to the Admiral’s appeal over the next hour. All he could think of was gathering Iece and Draco tonight, and getting them to some remote place. Memories of Uncle Vernon rowing them all to a lighthouse surrounded by water, made his heart ache with understanding how terrified his uncle must’ve been.

The Admiral read his distraction correctly. Gears must’ve been turning behind his eyes. “If someone is after you, taking your family to an isolated location would simply make you an easier target. Let us help you.”

His plea fell on deaf ears. Harry buried his head in his hands and forced the weight of his decision back. For moments at a time, he and the Admiral looked at each other without saying a word. The Naval officer was showing him, proving to him, that he wasn’t going anywhere. Harry would not be allowed to go through this alone.

They released him before midnight, as promised, and he found himself reeling from portkey travel, in front of Thella’s tent.

There were no lights inside, but he heard her say, “Come in, Harry.”

As soon as he crossed the boundary, he saw that she’d only used a spell to make it look like she was closed for business. Inside, he clearly smelled tea and the kind of noodles one heated in a cup of boiled water. A late dinner. Paper lanterns emitted soft light from the corners of the tent. She stood holding a paper cup of tea for him.

He shook his head. “Thank you, but no. I’m sorry, I have to get my daughter and go. I can’t thank you enough for your help. Are you okay? Did you get out of there all right?”

“I’m fine. Your little girl is fine. We were held in a room till it was all over. I’ve only been back an hour. Mr. Malfoy and Minister Banks showed up to take her. I let her go with her other father, I hope that’s okay. I could hardly keep him from taking her. I wouldn’t be surprised if my background isn’t thoroughly checked by morning.”

Laughter, even the thought of it, helped. “What do I owe you, I forgot to pay.”

He felt for his wallet and her hand on his arm stopped him. “That was on the house. Few people come to me needing that kind of help. It was an honor.”

She thought it was a compliment, but another accolade to his fame only pinched his insides with bitterness. He didn’t argue with her.

“Okay. I guess this is good night then.” He felt like he wasn’t saying nearly enough. But he had to catch up with Draco and bring this night to an end.

When he offered his hand, she took it. “Remember the talisman. And drink fluids. Electrolytes. Good night, Mr. Potter.”

Back out into the night, he tried to see the sky behind all the black cloud cover. No stars. No moon. No matter. Fireworks suddenly illuminated everything in sparks of red, gold, and green. Cheers went up and he saw that the lecture disturbance had not slowed the festival down one bit. Music spilled onto the streets from a distance. Festival goers were still wandering, eating sausages and sloshing beer from paper cups. Groups were thinner, but just as loud and appearing to grow more boisterous as the evening wore on. Obviously, children had been put to bed and grownups had the run of the place. Cannabis filled the air and Harry tried to steadied his nerves to apparate to Draco so soon after the portkey. He didn’t even know where Draco was.

Before he could fish for his phone and dial the right number, he was grasped and pulled further into the street, leaving Thella’s tent behind.

“Ah ha, There you are! Man, we’ve been looking every where for you.”

He hardly recognized Greg’s leering grin under the light of the fireworks. Green skin, red skin, gold skin. For a second, the menagerie rendered Harry mute.

Greg slapped his back. “We caught the show. We didn’t know what the hell happened to you. That was badass! I have never seen a wizard rip some shit like that out of somebody’s mind. I heard they been looking for that guy for years. It’s all over the wizard news. When you put on a show, you fucking put on a show.”

Harry shook his head against the blast of Greg’s energy. No, he had not forgotten this bastard and nothing was okay. When he pulled away, Greg retracted his hands to himself.

“C’mon, Potter. Even you gotta admit that went a long way to breaking the ice with me. You have my respect. I was an asshole. I admit it. Whatever you want me to say.”

Harry walked around him. “Don’t try to kiss my ass now.”

He got two steps away before he heard, “What was I supposed to do? I couldn’t beat you in the air, I can’t compete with that diva you call a boyfriend. You’re the hottest piece of ass on this tour and there I was sitting that close to you. I didn’t stand a chance, so I took what I could get away with in the moment. Haven’t you ever felt your one and only chance to make a move slipping away? So I did something I shouldn’t have. I’m sorry if it pissed you off, but I’m not sorry.”

They were beginning to attract stares and Harry lifted his eyes back to a black heaven, wondering just who was up there enjoying all of this. Did his parents think this was funny?

He didn’t feel like he was in any danger at the moment, maybe just too tired to judge the situation accurately. He let Greg off the hook, not caring one way or another. “Just leave me alone and don’t try it again.”

Greg laughed. “You’ve got to be kidding. I’m a wizard. I know what was in that kiss. If anything, you should be thanking me. We both liked it. Can you just admit that?”

Harry turned on him. “Look, all of this might be a game to you, but someone tried to kill me tonight, and has been for days. The only thing I can possibly think of right now is getting my family to safety. I’ll quit the fucking team if that’s what it takes to get you out of my face.”  
Greg finally looked as if he’d heard something Harry said. “Holy shit. I get it. You’re stressed out. Look man, I’m not hear to make things worse. You’re right, I have no idea what you’re going through right now. But I do want to be a friend, not a jerk. Not an enemy. I’ve seen what you can do and I want you on my side.”

Harry took in Greg’s leather jacket and casual jeans. The street attire somehow cost him points for wearing it well. It was all surface flare and Harry knew he couldn’t put his trust in that. But the guy did fill out the thighs of his pants nicely. Harry made the mistake of looking a second too long. He turned and Greg leapt forward, catching his arm.

“I promise, I will personally escort you back to your room and stay on the outside of the door, if you let me buy you a drink. You’re safe now. They got the dude. You don’t need to go back to a lonely hotel room, you need to hang out with friends and celebrate. Jason and I are going to this great underground place. A rave. You can forget everything in that energy. We’ll make sure you get back safe and sound. It’s a night out you deserve, and judging by that kiss, if you tell me you’re not interested, you’re a fucking liar and I know your man isn’t taking care of you. Just a drink. Some slams on the dance floor. Out by 2:00. If you go back to your room right now, you know you’re not going to sleep. You’re in too much pain to sleep. Thrash all this frustration away against some hot, angry bodies that can take it. A rave man, ever been to one?”

 _You’re in too much pain to sleep._ “No.” His mind told him not to say another word. It told him to be insulted and get rid of Greg before he could weaken his resolve any more.

“What’dya say? You don’t want to go back to that empty room. There’s no love there. Hang with your new friends. You don’t need to be alone right now.”

That false concern made Harry smile at how transparent it was. It made him realize that even though he knew Greg was a lying sack of shit, those words, their comfort, still felt good to hear. Something in him wanted Greg to mean it. If he really had it in him to mean it, then Draco had something to worry about. But he didn’t. Not even when he stepped so close to Harry that he blocked out the light from the fireworks.

Harry allowed himself two seconds to breathe Greg’s woody cologne and to feel his body heat permeating his personal space. Then he said, “I have to check on my --”

He never got the word ‘daughter’ out. Greg’s mouth locked onto his and once again something in him responded as if it were real. As if he could trust it. He wanted to shove Greg away but he didn’t know how to say no to the relief of pleasure as it surged forward and took what his body needed. Greg’s warmth held no answers, but it did hold comfort. His straining grip, told Harry how much he was wanted, how much he was savored. He pulled Harry into him, his hands wrapping like pythons around Harry’s slender back. For seconds, for minutes, Harry didn’t know, he was free-falling and unable to control the momentum that had him opening to Greg and taking as much as he wanted in return.

When he regained enough control to pull out of it, he turned his head and pushed a fist’s length between them. “We can’t do this. This is fake, this is nothing.”

Greg’s breath tasted of beer. “All the more reason to let yourself have it.”

Harry threw his appeal for help skyward. He spoke to more than Greg when he said out loud, “I want my family more than I want you.”

Greg laughed, and dove for his neck. Behind him, Harry saw Thella exit her tent. Instead of being embarrassed, he knew she had heard him. In silence, her graceful hand lifted to touch an invisible object below her throat. The talisman. She was reminding him.

His fist left Greg’s chest to grasp the talisman. His conscious touch drew from it, the projection of his daughter. She played in sunlight, in a dress that he’d never bought her, on a day too sunny to be real. And still he felt it. Still it worked. He felt Greg collapse against him.

The other man shook in a fit of laughter and Harry waited it out. As Greg took his weight off of him, Thella slipped back inside her tent.

“Oh man. How greedy am I? Look, I’m sorry. You’re in a bad place and I’m taking advantage of it. You’re right. I’m an asshole. Tell you what, I’m going to give you some time to think about it. If I can keep my hands off of you for the next three times we meet, will you at least think about giving me a real shot? I don’t want to take you away from your family, I just want to sleep with you. Why should the Malfoys get all the fun?”

The statement didn’t paralyzed Harry as much as it should’ve. He realized now that Greg was quite drunk. Instead of getting out of it the easiest way possible, he lifted his head, looked him in the eye and said, “No.”

He couldn’t explain it. He’d slept with other people. He and Draco both had. But tonight that wasn’t going to happen. This man had started something that only Draco could finish. Greg had been instrumental in helping him to figure out what he wanted. He wanted Draco like this, under a sky filled with fireworks, drunk on beer and survival, grateful to be alive, grateful to have all they had and ready to make love in front of strangers if they didn’t have sense enough to look away. That intoxicated, and that excited about being with one another. Where had that gone? And why did it take this knuckle-headed idiot to show him he could still have it?

The talisman. It worked.

He abandoned Greg as gently as he could, walked away, and dialed Draco’s number. He hardly waited for Draco to speak.

“Harry? The Minister said you’d be fine. Are you –?

“Where are you?”

“The Grey Estate. Iece is fine also. Jipsy’s put her to bed. We want you to come home tomorrow.”

“I’m coming tonight. Right now. Are you busy?”

“Um, Harry that’s not a good idea.”

“Who’s there?”

“No one. It’s just that when I see you, we’re going to need to talk. So much has happened today, I want you to be fully rested when we discuss what’s going to happen next.”

He shook his head, knowing full well Draco couldn’t see him, and not caring. “I’ll tell you what’s going to happen next. You and me. Tonight. I can’t stand another minute away from you. The way things are going, I might not live for another opportunity.”

Draco’s voice faltered. “Harry, are you drunk? Do not come here. This is a bad time and your daughter is asleep. If you wake her up, we’ll be up all night.”

“It’s a mansion. I’ll peek in on her, and you can tell Jipsy to put a silence spell around her room. I don’t want her to hear us.”

He ended the call, not waiting on Draco to make another excuse. He concealed himself between tents and braced his body for the apparation.

Seconds later, he stood in what was once, one of the Malfoy’s receiving rooms. Draco had hired a company to redecorate over his parent’s austere tastes so that Harry might feel more comfortable there, but Harry had never liked the place even then. A stay over night was an acquiescence to Draco’s organized life and a bid to keep the peace between them. Harry raced through the room now, nearly tripping over antiques as he started stripping on his way in search of Draco. He kept quiet, wanting to see the look of surprise take over Draco’s face. He’d warned Draco, but that didn’t mean the other believed him. He was really going to do it. He was really going to back Draco against the wall and not take no for an answer.

After two weeks, he owed the both of them what Rankar would’ve called, “a positive sexual experience.” Even before the train wreck, they hadn’t had one of those in a long time. The way his body had responded to Greg’s kiss, told him his sexual power and joy was still there. Maybe there’d been too much pressure with Draco, too much baggage. But tonight, he was ready for it. His body remembered what it was all about and his cock practically pointed the way as it led him through rooms that once turned his stomach at the thought of their occupants, but now assured him he’d make love to Draco in every single one of them and finally claim the place as his own.

The upstairs bedrooms were devoid of human presence. Iece’s nursery was across the hall from Draco’s old bedroom, the only room he could sleep in. The master bedroom had been turned into another library, to render its contaminated taint neutral to Harry’s sensibilities. He was glad not to have found Draco there. Tantalizing thoughts of bending Draco over his father’s old desk, which Draco insisted on keeping, “It was carved from a solid piece of Redwood,” excited him to get closer and closer to the downstairs study.

Satisfied that the place was empty, he left his jacket and tie in the hall and stepped out of his shoes just as he approached the door to Draco’s office. Through a crack, he saw Draco seated to the right side of the room, his head perched on double folded fists, contemplating some dreary concern. Harry had a three-quarter view of him and relished the shock on Draco’s face when he stepped into the room.

Draco startled, blinking. “Harry?”

“I told you I was on my way. I hope you’re ready.”

“God, Harry.” Draco leapt to his feet.

“Didn’t think I meant it, did you? I want you to shout my name just like that. I’ve been so fucking afraid of this place. Tonight, I’m going to own this bitch. I’m lucky enough to have you, and I’m going to show you how much I know it. How much I want it. If we have to do it in every room, all this bullshit ends tonight. I want you Draco and I’m not letting another second go by without you knowing it.”

“Harry, this is not a good time.” Draco’s color drained and his eyes took on a round, clinical alarm, like a doctor keeping his cool, but terrified to give the worst diagnosis possible. “Get your clothes.”

A crack in Draco’s voice told Harry how effective the sight of his full erection straining through his shorts must be. “Bet you haven’t seen this in a while. I’m back. Maybe someone should try to kill me every night. I’m fucking over it. I wanna see yours.”

He reached for Draco’s belt and pulled him, protesting, into a kiss befitting the two weeks of pent up desire. “Can’t believe I was so afraid to ask for this.”

“Harry.” Draco’s shoves were panicked but light. Harry held him still.

“I thought you were going to leave me. I get that you need Iece to get used to being without me, but we can still meet. She can see Daddy, and Daddy can get what he needs...”

“Harry!” Draco’s shoved hard. Hard enough to make Harry question the force. When they stood looking at one another, Draco blurted. “We are not alone.”

Harry took in the room, the couch in front of Draco’s desk, the empty leather chairs, the bookcases, the plants, statues, and sliding doors that went onto a balcony. He saw no one else in the room. Not until Draco spoke to the mirror consuming one-third of the wall behind the couch. “Mother, Father, Harry didn’t see you there. He couldn’t.”

It wasn’t his fault, Draco’s tone stubbornly apologized on Harry’s behalf.

Freezing from the inside, Harry slowly turned to see the reflections of Draco’s parent’s staring back at him. They were reverse reflections, for they were using one of the oldest ways long distance communication known to wizards. A seeing mirror. The stuff of muggle fairy tales. This one was mounted in a sectional frame, carved from giant sequoia roots and sprawled like growing Devil’s Snare over the wall. Each loop between polished bark, was a place where the mirror pooled into a silvery surface. The Malfoys stood in the largest middle section of it and Harry could see clear into their home, to the sofas and cavernous space of furnishings on the other side.

A twitch to Narcissa’s mouth drew his attention there. He never knew if she was smiling or smirking. Pitying or laughing. Her subtlety was an art. But just in case she was laughing at him, he called her a bitch in his mind. The heat in his chest, and tears in his eyes wouldn’t let it come out of his mouth. The only real reason he had to hate her, was that she’d done nothing to stop what had happened that night. And that was plenty. Lying to Voldemort to save her son, had been too little too late. And _him_. Harry couldn’t even look at the wizard pinning him with those glacier, soulless eyes without smelling his own blood from that night.

He couldn’t stop the rage that climbed his spine and swore death even as Lucius feigned innocence and regarded him with false civility. Everyone in the room knew this war was still going on.  
 

"Harry, I’m sorry.” Draco whispered. “I tried to tell you.”

Harry spun to face him. “You said you were alone.”

“I am alone. They aren’t physically here.”

“They’re closer to my daughter than they should be!”

“She’s fine. Jipsy has her. They can’t go anywhere near her.”

“They’re too close for my liking. And you could’ve done a better fucking job of saying something.”

“I had no idea you’d try this. I’m sorry.”

He wasn’t looking at Draco. One of the Malfoys had just cleared their throat, like they were being fucking inconvenienced. When he looked back at them, they were standing like statues, removed from the scene at hand. But their eyes recorded Harry’s every wince, his nudity, and every second of his humiliation.

He’d show them. He wasn’t crying because he was scared. He was crying because he couldn’t kill them the way he wanted to. He didn’t know what they were up to, but he didn’t like it. With no better way to make his point, he picked up one of Draco’s brass paper weights and threw it. He knew the mirror had to be spelled against damage, which is why he took tremendous delight in seeing it shatter at the force of his magic. If they thought he was weak, they would know differently. If they thought he was going to let them harass him with their presence around his daughter, they’d know they had a fight on their hands. His magic might’ve been scarred, but it was alive and well, and so much stronger than theirs.

As dust and shards flew out into the room, Draco ducked, shielding his face from the spray. Harry screamed at Lucius and Narcissa, “Stay away from her. Stay away!”

When the walls stopped shaking, brown paper backing and crumbled bits of roots, were all that was left of the mirror. The floor lay strewn with glass, splinters, and plaster. Harry did not apologize for destroying a magical heirloom that was probably over a thousand years old. Draco, who shook glass from his hair, did not expect him to. Without another word, Harry picked up his shirt and pants and stormed out. He ignored the sound of Draco calling him back.

He didn’t dress until he was on the lawn outside of the estate. Shaking, he buttoned his shirt and thought about how drunk he needed to be before he could forget how humiliated he was. Images of Jasper and Greg, downing shots at a rave, suddenly held new appeal for him. Before he could change his mind, he apparated, leaving the Malfoy lawn quiet, dark, and empty.

* * *

A/N: Please review! :-) Thanks.


	17. Serebryanyy Dym (Silver Smoke)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Draco’s parents make him an offer. Resistance is a waste of everyone’s time.

After he left Iece with Harry, Draco went back to the parking garage to save Jipsy. The elf did not need saving, and Draco couldn’t apparate back into the vehicle if he’d wanted to. In the shadows, the car remained parked, with Jipsy sitting in the backseat, ears barely visible through tinted glass. Draco appeared sixty meters behind it, close enough to retain the use of his magic without being seen. He shielded himself to protect against another assault, and simultaneously summoned Jipsy to let go of her position inside the car and join him. With a soft echo, she appeared behind him. He looked for signs of distress, like fear or trembles. Without knowing her well, he wasn’t sure if he could spot limitations or duress, or if she was the type to hide vulnerabilities from him. She blinked innocently, pushed herself against the car they were both hiding behind, and gave the nod that she was okay.

He thought as much. He hadn’t been sure, but before apparating to Harry, he thought he recognized one of the figures now standing around the empty car. His suspicions were correct. That wizard was so vain, he didn’t have sense enough to put a hat on, or cover his most obvious feature. Figures. He had been right to leave Jipsy and remove Iece. Four wizards surrounded the car. He could feel their magic searching the space around them for the missing occupants. It wasn’t his intention to hide forever, just until he had no choice. He wasn’t going to make this easy for them.

Expecting a harsh command, he was not prepared to hear a much softer, apologetic tone coming out of the dark, from a female voice. “Draco, please come out. We wish to talk to you.”

It was his mother. Her slender frame also held its position in the dark, but so much smaller than those imposing wizards. She wore a billowing coat of steel blue and a pillbox hat atop her drawn hair. Delicate black netting drifted over one sculpted eyebrow and she squared her shoulders as she faced him. Draco had missed her there, along with the two shorter individuals standing behind her. He zero’d in on them, sensing they were not house elves, but elves hired for the purpose of using magic that his parents were restricted from using.

“You’re not in any danger, Sweetie. Please forgive us. We couldn’t go any longer without speaking to you. It’s an important matter. Since you won’t take our owls, we had to resort to this. We had no choice. It concerns the safety and health of Harry’s daughter. Please come out and talk to us.”

He closed his eyes against whatever insurmountable, extra, super thick bullshit this was, and flung himself out into the open. “You endangered our lives. Do you even know how muggle vehicles work? We could’ve been killed.”

His accusation drove her smile away before it had time to form. “Raggis and Dristle held you quite secure. They were gentle and safe, they have plenty of experience with muggle contraptions.”

“Mother, it isn’t what our vehicle does on the road, it’s what others are doing around us. You took away my ability to steer away from trouble. One does not drive one of those things without one’s instincts. As far as I’m concerned, your ignorance of muggle technology is a danger to everyone.”

Now nothing friendly appeared on her face. She gave him the look she usually reserved for telling balled faced lies. She would not be guilted into doubting herself. But the fact that any displeasure showed at all, meant that she was at least considering his point.

“We would not be forced to such extremes if you’d read our letters or allowed us to speak with you. We tried everything.”

“You and I speak often enough.”

“I’m not talking of estate affairs or finances. That’s business. This is family, and every time I attempt meaningful conversation with you, you put me in my place.” Her tone did not match the humility of her choice of words.

“There’s nothing to discuss. I have one job, and that’s to keep my sister safe. That means you’re out of the picture. You decided that when you treated Harry like garbage.”

“Draco Lucius Malfoy! Would you rather that Voldemort sliced our throats that night? Yes, there was cruelty, but Harry was supposed to never wake up from it. He was never supposed to look back on it and be tormented by it. That would’ve been mercy for him.”

Her voice thickened with conviction. No longer thin and apologetic, she spoke with full knowledge of her authority and certainty.

“We all have injuries that will bleed for the rest of our lives. Look at what we did to you, to keep you alive. And you think Harry is exempt from this madness? You think we started this? Every decision we made, our only goal was to keep our family together. And we did it. We beat all the odds. Was there trauma? Hell yes! I’d like to see anyone else survive all that without it. You’re the one who brought that boy back from death, and kept him from peace. The most responsible, compassionate thing anyone could’ve done for him, was to let him move on from his torture. No one wanted him to suffer that.”

Draco shook. Speaking to her this way wasn’t easy. “Father did.”

“Your father would’ve done anything to save your life. That is not weakness. That is strength. Just as you would kill anyone who proves a threat to that child, your father would’ve killed. That makes you and he no different from one another. It was just unfortunate that Harry came between you. It was war, Draco. What else can war be? And now we’ve all survived. Now we have to get past it.”

“There’s no getting past it. You saw how wrong Voldemort was, and you hurt Harry anyway.” It took all of his control to look his mother in the eye, and to keep unwavering focus in his voice. While she was not using her magic, she let it roll out from her. She let him feel her experience, her heritage, in the form of an invisible mantle that kept unfurling past his feet. She was a witch first, and motherhood was inexorably entangled with that.

Ever since he was a child, she had a way of holding very still in displeasure and unfolding her magic in such a way that it slapped his face when she refused to indulge him. Though her hands remained pressed against folded arms, his cheek would sting and blotches appeared. With his father present, or in a room full of unsuspecting company, only the two of them would be aware of what had transpired. It had been rare that she’d needed it, but impacting enough that Draco’s tantrums silenced abruptly. There were times when she had used the open palm of her delicate hands, but mostly, without words, her psychic slaps told him, “I made you. I have every right to change my mind about it.”

Looking back, he’d known it was an empty threat, but his eleven year-old self was not so sure.

The full brunt of her old magic, felt like an icicle held at his throat, an ephemeral weapon that, once melted, could not be proven to have existed at all. After such threats, once he’d quieted, she’d fall to her hands and knees and pull him deep into her breast. “You are my precious precious man,” she’d tell him. The tips of her fingers raked his scalp and across his back, trailing comfort and sensation into his skin. Contrary to what others knew, a bounty of affection always came after unspoken death threats. Both had lessened over the years, but Draco remembered them.

“I’m not like him. Not anymore. Harry needs me now.”

“Listen to reason. When it comes to defending what you love, you will do anything. Just like your father.”

He shook her out of his head. “What do you want with me? Say whatever you have to say, you have one minute.”

Even in the dim of the garage, he saw the light in her eyes flare. She was not going to forgive him for taking that tone with her. No matter what she’d done, her status was supposed to be sacrosanct. Anyone who used her body as a life support system, then her investment of love and focus, was owed that. It might be years from now. There might be a miracle and they could both be in a better place. But one day, she would mold a set of circumstances out of his disrespect in this moment, and it would snap back to him like a rubber band stretched through time. She could hold onto a slight for decades, letting go of her end of it, to see the recoil inflict all the pent up damage that had kept it taut. He’d lose skin over that burn, and she’d be right there to feign concern.

But right now, it really was about the child.

“Draco, Harry and I have a common ancestor. Through his father. And the women of my line require certain help through their formative years. It’s a… a trait.”

She fought so hard not to use the word ‘deficiency’ that he heard it anyway. Her face pinched on the word as if it were a painful hook snagging her cheek. She tried not to show pain.

As she faltered, Draco smelled a lie. Either that, or his mother simply blanched at the thought of admitting any kind of genetic flaw in her family. “It only expresses in females.”

“You’ve never said anything about it before.”

“I have never had a reason to. We’re not proud of it. Dorea Black was Fleamont Potter’s cousin. That’s Harry’s grandfather.”

Draco grimaced. The practice of committing their ancestry to memory, was an interest he no longer shared with her. Who cares who came before you, he wanted to scream at her. It doesn’t give you points. You still have to figure out your own way. You’re here, deal with it. Stop using the excuse of your dead relatives to justify your existence. All of us could’ve just as easily come through some nameless peasant in Albania. Can you love life, and who you are, anyway? That’s all you need.

Harry’s endurance of relatives who’d had no idea of his power, and kept him in ignorance, only to rise to his fullness in the Wizarding world, helped Draco to see that life was what you made it, not what you came from.

His mother’s smirk made him doubt himself for a minute. In their connection, she knew what he was thinking and threw his contempt back in his face. Harry rose, her smile said, not because of what was in his heart, but because of what was in his blood.

She continued, “Now that the child exists, a Potter-Black daughter, certain magic has been activated. If he’d had a son, this would be less problematic. Does she exhibit odd symptoms? Fevers? There’s usually tenderness around the fingernails. If she ever cries and you can’t stop it, it’s her hands. The skin will get so thin around her cuticles, they’ll bleed. We know what to do, but it can get worse if you’re not prepared.”

“She’s never experienced anything like that.”

“No, I expect not. But it’ll be coming on soon. Her body won’t be able to make enough proteins. Tissue and connectivity will be a problem. She’ll have to get it from a mineral, at least until she grows into her magic. It’s really all about that.”

“What are you talking about? What kind of deficiency?”

She sighed. “There’s a story. A history, actually. The females are heirs. It is documented at Gringotts if you want to look it up, if you don’t trust your own library. Some people consider it less of a deficiency and more of a curse. The Black wealth is tied to it. And whatever is to be said about this situation, the child is family.”

“Mother, you hijacked my car to tell me about curses?”

“That little girl will get very sick if she doesn’t have someone in her life who knows how to look after her. My vaults have alerted me that she needs an heirloom. Its time has come.”

Draco could hear anger whistle through his mother’s short breath as she kept her irritation under control. They were both headed towards heated regret and neither could stop it. He knew the feeling of no return too well.

Just then, a slow and cautious silhouette stepped up beside her.

He had been so focused on catching his mother in a lie, he hadn’t noticed his father’s approach. There was no point in acting surprised. He bit off, “What do you have to add? Not that it’s going to do a damn bit of good.”

Lucius appeared unaffected by Draco’s venom. His face was a perfect mask of impassive acceptance. Fair enough, it seemed to say to the untrained observer. I deserve this. But to Draco, it said something different. He knew those neutral corners of his father’s mouth told the real story. Anything that wasn’t a frown, could’ve been a smile. A victory, on one so emotionally stealthy as Lucius.

Just as his mother could slap him without using her hands, his father’s height and breadth, silence and appraisal, exuded a history of protective succor and hard won love. He couldn’t look at him without being in a place where he feared and needed to be the focus of Lucius’s respect. To break that hold, he thought of Harry. He thought of his Nicee, and it rendered his father’s rebellious display of his cane and tied hair, ridiculous. Lucius couldn’t simply wear a suit, not even in the muggle world. It had to be a formal, stiff, black satin that glittered silver buttons, which winked a white glare even in the dim and swore fealty to Wizarding style. At least Draco had the decency to tame the flourish with which he’d been taught to dress. He stopped at an immaculate cut of clothing, but his father had to flaunt every accessory and embellishment their money afforded them.

Lucius held a box out to him. “For the child.”

Draco stiffened. The words hit his ears completely wrong. They mocked, ‘Notice how I didn’t say ‘my daughter’ and I could have.’ He must’ve been channeling Harry, because he felt the only decent thing to do in that moment, was take a swing. Lucius’s presence alone, was too daring, too cruel after everything that’s happened. He had no desire to hit his father, but he felt he should’ve. Harry would.

“You have no right to offer her anything. You have no right to speak of her.”

He didn’t see his mother twitch. He only saw the pliant skin around his father’s mouth go granite hard.

Lucius regarded him, delivering a cool jet of words. “And yet, the Universe does not strike me down. I wake up to sunlight and freedom, just as you do. Perhaps you are not the proper judge of such matters after all. Your worst, unforgiving wrath, cannot undo the simple fact that I am as blessed as you and your precious Harry. Hate me if you must, Draco. I realize that you must feel you owe him your loyalty. But remember what I did to keep you alive.”

Narcissa intervened. “Take the box, Draco. We’ve no time for quarreling.”

He couldn’t fix his lips to express the razor-edged words that wanted to cut their way out of his mouth. He gripped his wand, drawing it out to keep his father at a distance. It wasn’t Lucius’s body that needed kept at bay, it was his slithering, contaminated way of pulling on his son’s emotions. Every word out of his mouth was a reminder that he shared something with his father that he did not share with his mother. This man had been great once, and had accepted him on a whole other plane. Though it sickened him now, there was an intimate knowing in his father’s words that wouldn’t let Draco forget they’d crossed certain boundaries.

That doesn’t count, Draco wanted to shout. When you’re that scared, you’ll do anything. Those intimate moments didn’t count. Neither of them had been in their right minds.

His father’s gaze went through him. “Exactly.” Lucius extended the box. “Take it.”

Draco’s wand shook. “What is it?”

Narcissa took it from Lucius, crossed the boundary of Draco’s wand, and brought it to his chest. “The bracelet. From one of my vaults. It presented itself. They always do when a female child is in need. Her blood could’ve been diluted enough to skip all of this. Harry’s side has brought new genetics, but the bracelet presented itself anyway. That means she needs it.”

He shook his head, refusing to take it. This whole thing was too sudden, too convenient. “This is a trick. You’re making all of this up.”

“Do your research, Draco. It is documented in the Black history. It is concealed as colorful folklore. Some call it a curse. Either way, we’re approaching before things take a turn for the worse. Take the bracelet.” She shoved it hard into his chest. “This isn’t about you or us. This is about her.”

His fingers gripped it to keep the box corner from biting into him further. “Harry is not going to allow her to have anything from you.”

“He will have to make an exception if he loves his daughter. If he can make that exception, then we can let the past go.”

“Easy for you to say. I can’t ask that of him. I have no right to, and neither do you.”

“Surely, the child’s needs come first, even to him.”

“Her name is Iece, and she needs Harry. If he’s not okay, she’ll never be okay. I’m looking out for them both. And neither of you are welcomed in our lives.”

Lucius removed any trace of emotion from his voice. “Welcome or not, I have an interest in the child. I don’t abandon blood. I do not ask that Harry change his feelings for me one bit, but I do ask to see her on occasion, and that she grow up knowing who we are.”

“No. You have no rights to her.”

“I think I do. I’m trying to be civil about this, but Draco, you know as well as I do, that we wizards need no documents to set parameters around our boundaries. Paper contracts and laws mean nothing to our magic. For better or worse, Harry bore my child. I will do my part to protect her from our common enemies. My resources are her resources.”

“She doesn’t need a damn thing from you!”

“She’s new blood, Draco. We all need her.”

Draco was on the verge of tears. “Why can’t you just let Harry have her? Haven’t you done enough? Take Mother and live your lives. You’re out of prison, be happy with that. You don’t get to have more. You don’t get to be a part of Iece’s and Harry’s life. After what you did, regardless of why you did it, you just can’t be in our lives. Have the grace, the compassion, the balls, to stay away from us.”

Something in Lucius’s face fell. No one would’ve realized they’d been looking at a mask until Lucius dropped it. He looked at Draco like a stranger, a stranger who had just taken all of his options away. Draco was no longer his son, but a rival. An opponent. He reached into his coat and pulled out a thin, sheathed, paper object.

“Give him this as well. It is a muggle device. A recording. We have gone to great lengths to show that we are willing to set aside the past and bridge our world to Harry’s. It contains the Black story that affects my daughter. We have muggle technology in our home now. We receive outside instruction. We are doing it for the sake of the child. The recording simply asks Harry to consider letting us mend our broken history. Whether he would forgive or no, we are formally asking it. The only other option, is to take this matter to the Ministry. Well, that’s not the only other option, but it is the only civil one. I’m willing to go back to Azkaban if it means my daughter will have the truth of who I am. I know how to survive it now. I don’t think Harry needs a prison sentence on top of everything he has endured, nor do I think he deserves one. But the Ministry will look at his testimony quite differently, were they to find that he and his friends kept a very important secret.”

Draco refused to be cowed. “Everyone would forgive him. You may not know what shame is, but people get that it’s too much. They get that’s he’s been through enough. They’d let him go.”

“Secrets were ripped from those sent to Azkaban. Families torn apart based on Harry’s infallible testimony. Because of his silence, he’s condemned you and all of his friends to the same fate. Each day you all allow others to rot in prison, exposed and ruined, while you enjoy keeping your secrets hidden. I have nothing else to lose, and Harry, Miss Granger, Mr. Weasley, and yourself, have everything to lose. I wonder, if I came forward, and Harry had to do time, would any court award me me at least partial, chaperoned, custody of my daughter? I think they would do that before condemning her to an orphan’s status. Would Harry be okay with that? Or would it just be easier to settle the matter between ourselves?”

“Harry’s right. You are evil.”

“I taught you better than that, Draco. Don’t let your emotions get the best of you. If I were evil, wouldn’t I have done this already? No, I’m nothing so predictable and common. I’m giving him a chance to make the most intelligent move he can make. The situation is unfortunate, but we do not grieve over what we can’t change. You have my offer. Persuade him to take it. If not, we will leave the world of courts and documents, and laws behind. You know what I did to bargain for your life. I will do as much for this child, and Harry will not like it. My rights are written in her blood, which comes from me, and Harry is bound to that as well. Let’s make an effort to play nice, shall we?”

Anger sent tremors through Draco’s voice. “Why are you doing this? You know she’s better off without you. You’d go back to prison, take Harry and all of his friends with you, even me, and destroy Iece’s childhood, just so that you can have visiting rights? That’s proof that you’re incapable of love. You act on instinct, and nothing else. Anyone who cared about his daughter, would throw her to the nearest, poorest fucking muggle, to give her a chance at a decent life. If you loved her, you would take an honest look at yourselves, and give her up. You owe that to Harry. You owe that to her.”

Lucius lifted his chin. In his offense, he was slow to find an adequate response to Draco’s betrayal.

Narcissa spoke sharply. “She’s family, Draco. No matter what we’ve done, we will not tolerate being dismissed as criminals by you. We will not tolerate your disrespect. We’ve done our time, and all because, in our love, we scraped shit off the floor and ate it in order to keep you alive. Now you think you’re above having to make difficult decisions that compromise morality. Well you’re not. Your time is coming. That’s what children do to you. They make you decide if it’s going to be the world, or if it’s going to be them. You don’t get to maintain an immaculate record when someone you love is threatened. Don’t you know that? Don’t you realize that you, and all the others, have compromised your morals and broken the law just as we did? And if you’re capable of that, then you’re capable of even more. It all depends on how desperate fear makes you. And for that, your father and I should be forgiven.”

Draco’s arm hurt from keeping it outstretched for so long. Narcissa stepped close enough to lay her hand on it.

“The war is over. It was always about victims, and Harry’s wand did as much to Death Eaters as we did to him. We have friends who did not survive Harry’s punishment, yet he is innocent and we are not? His child cannot be orphaned, yet a thousand Death Eaters, trapped in service to Voldemort, have lost theirs? He can take life, yet acts against him, are sacrilege? No, the only thing that separates Harry Potter from a Death Eater, is pedigree and popular opinion.

“Act for act, deed for deed, he did as much damage to us as we did to him. Why should a carnal act sway the difference? Why is it more heinous that your father used his cock instead of his wand? Who makes up these rules? Murder is murder, whether you are taking the life of someone who will kill others, or taking it because you disagree with them. That’s what war is, and your Harry participated fully. He fucking led the resistance. If all he did was come out of it with his life, and a child, he has fared better than many. You will not bring your father low simply to raise your lover. If you’re going to judge us and hold fairness as criteria, then judge Harry too.”

Draco’s tongue felt thick in his mouth and he swallowed for the relief of lubricating it. His mother’s logic undermined his emotional thinking. She made him consider things he shouldn’t be considering. But she wasn’t entirely wrong, just unpopular, as she had stated.

She wasn’t finished. “If we’re monsters, we wouldn’t bother with hijacking your vehicle. We would’ve already gone to the Ministry and played our cards. We approach you like this, out of love, not animal instinct. Not fear. Love. No one wants to hurt Harry anymore. No one ever wanted to, we were running from Voldemort’s whip. You know that. You saw first hand what we went through. It was Harry or you. No one handed us a manual, or solutions. We made horrible decisions. That was hell enough, we will not be trapped in that painful past by anyone’s judgment. Let them walk in our shoes and see how well they keep their child alive in the face of such opposition. We want to end all of that pain. Make Harry listen. The deaths and maiming he caused, are somehow superior to the harm we’ve done? When inspired to love, we love. When convinced to attack, we attack. Just. Like. Him. Just like anyone. Stop pretending, along with him and everyone else, that we’ve unleashed some new malice into the world, because we haven’t. We’ve survived. That’s all.”

He shrugged her off. “It doesn’t matter. I can’t betray Harry. I won’t. He’s not in a state to understand this. You two have each other. I have to stick by him.”

Her voice softened. “It’s obvious what you’re doing. You’re trying to make up for what we did, by being good to him. You’re trying to clear our name by showing that a Malfoy is capable of better. We get that, and we love you all the more, but that’s our burden, not yours. This bracelet will let us all start to heal. It will be like a bridge from us to him. A missing piece.”

“That’s exactly what I’m afraid of. I can’t do that to Harry. How is it supposed to work, anyway? How does it help her?”

“It’s a platinum bracelet, mined from alluvial holdings that she will inherit when she’s twenty-two, that come to all Black women. But those deposits already know that she is the rightful owner. Her blood is tied to them. It’s in the recording, the thing called a muggle video. The whole story. Before muggles invented the word for the mineral, we called it _Serebryanyy Dym_. Silver smoke. Black women always keep a bit of it on them.” She lifted her hand to the platinum ensconced sapphire in her ear.

“The bracelet is thin. It will fit a baby’s wrist and grow with her until she’s strong enough to do without it. We hired instruction, sat down, and made an appeal for Harry. Since we cannot get an audience with him, we are asking his forgiveness this way. We’re laying everything out. We’re asking for visitation privileges, as well as forgiveness. And we’re instructing him on his daughter’s needs. It is valuable information. We’re very pleased with it.

“Make Harry give our recording a chance. We are begging for his forgiveness, if that’s what he needs to hear. We are asking on behalf of this child, who needs her family. The bracelet has come forth. That means she’s going to need all the help she can get. Her magic is different. Harry has had over two years to sulk about what was done to him. We know that he will never get over it. But for her sake, either he will get on with life, or he will let others help where they can. She’s going to need us, Draco. This is no time to let resentment keep her from getting help.”

All of this was based on some phantom claims that he had no proof of. Iece did do things he didn’t understand. Like the sickness around magic that directly affected her. Like when she couldn’t apparate without getting sick. She was really too young and minors were not allowed to do it for a reason, let alone babies. But he and Harry had had Snape’s protection spells. Snape, who knew spells around everything. The protection had isolated her from harm when she’d been an infant and he and Harry had needed to keep moving from place to place. They might’ve taken the effect on her for granted. Maybe they’d damaged her in some way.

And there was that thing with her eyes. But that only happened once and it happened so fast that Draco couldn’t be sure of what he’d seen. She’d been laughing over the muggle chicken nuggets he’d caused to dance for her back when they had a little muggle apartment. Her head had fallen back in her zeal, her tiny teeth displayed to full capacity, as fits shook her whole body. With outstretched arms, she slapped her palms together, squeezed her eyes closed, and when she’d opened them, they were gray, not black. They were his father’s eye color. The sight arrested him. But when she blinked again, the color was gone and he was left silent in the wake of her glee. The nuggets had stopped dancing. Iece poked at them and dropped them from the air to make them dance again. Draco sobered and made her eat. He never mentioned it to Harry because he didn’t know what it meant and there was no point in making up new things to worry about, when absolutely nothing was wrong.

None of that had anything to do with his mother’s claims. But it signaled that something was up with Harry’s child. It told him that he, at least, needed to see the recording. If his parents were lying, he would actually be relieved. But if they were telling the truth, he’d have to talk to Harry. He’d have to prepare Harry for the worst.

His fingers closed around the disc that Lucius held out for him. He tried not to feel that this was a further betrayal to Harry, and steeled himself against his father’s elegant gloat.

“This means nothing,” he said. “I’ll watch it. I’ll find out if you’re lying, just to take care of the baby. But nothing will make Harry watch this. Nothing I say will ever make him give you a chance.”

Narcissa flicked his condemnation away. “We trust you’ll do your best, Draco.”

Their magical restrictions did not let them apparate. He watched his parents and their reinforcements retreat into their respective vehicles. They took one chauffeured, dark sedan, while the elves and hired security took two others. He stood holding the box and the outdated CD like he’d been stuck with a curse. He opened the box. Dark artifacts were his specialty and he wasn’t stupid enough to take something like this into his home without testing it first.

The bracelet sat on a cushion of black velvet. It looked impossibly small, thin and delicate, not the iron-ore chunk he’d imagined. It was meant to look as innocent as a baby, he reasoned. Well crafted. Deceptively so. Sweet and harmless, like it could break. He knew that it was the hardest substance in the muggle world, and that it would never break. Its careful design was meant to have everyone who saw it, instantly forgive the parent for making a two-year old bear the weight of vanity, of selfish parental pride. A baby’s new skin was all the beauty and adornment any of them needed, without adults rushing to hurry and add value to the perfection that was already there.

Harry had already been irreversibly affected by a fourth-year Ravenclaw who confided resenting her mother’s choice to have her ears pierced before she could speak. Now she was a person who didn’t like the weight of jewelry and had to walk around with two extra holes in her head, all because her mother was following a cool trend. If they saw a baby in a stroller with pierced ears, Harry would always remark out of earshot of the parent, “I’d never do that to my daughter.” It was one of Harry’s favorite go-to observations whenever life allowed them to enjoy public errands together. It was a chance to people-watch and forget how they were forever on the stage of someone else’s entertainment.

Draco had never spoken up. Parents and their mistakes were a sensitive subject for him. He always let Harry have his judgment and a Ravenclaw’s ungrateful resentment. Why couldn’t she see that her mother had worshiped and celebrated her? People had always offered gold and minerals to pagan gods, because those substances endured longer than human lifespans, and could be programmed to hold magic. A mother had wanted to give the gift of the gods to her daughter. A permanent place for precious magic incubated in the Earth, which came out sparkling and shining.

For all the times he held back his response to Harry’s declaration, he answered now in the dark, with Jipsy waiting for him by his rental car. “Harry, you never know what you will do for the people you love.”

He sounded, he knew, just like his parents.


	18. Searching in the Dark

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harry reaches out in the dark. Someone responds.

It took vibrating Jasper’s phone out of his pocket to find the club where he and Greg had gone. Before that, it took waking his Quidditch Captain, Abria Stepanov, to track down the number. Harry wasn’t about to call Greg. He might’ve been pissed, but he still had enough wits about him to know not to give the other the power to accuse him of asking for anything. ‘Hey, you called me, remember?’ That’s exactly how the morning after would go, if Harry wasn’t careful. He had no intention of socializing with Greg, but he was dead set on obliterating the past thirty minutes with as much alcohol as possible. If that meant the risk of taking everything he’d planned to do to Draco, out on a stranger, then he was lost to it. Someone was getting fucked tonight. Either that or take his fists to the nearest brick alley and just start punching. He preferred mindless orgasms over broken bones.

Why not? He’d played nice, he’d gone to therapy, he’d turned down great sex, and had his life threatened three times that week. Seeing the Malfoys, seeing him at his most unguarded, was the breaking point. He deserved one night of not giving a shit about anyone or anything. He’d deal with Draco later, when it was safe to do so. Whatever logic had induced Draco into thinking a meeting with his parents was a good idea, had Harry more afraid of that reason than Draco’s betrayal. Sure there must’ve been a good reason, and simply knowing that hurt like hell, which is why Harry had to stamp out the pain the only way he knew how. Indulgence, pleasure, and as much stimuli as the night could give him. Everything Draco couldn’t give him at the moment.

His hands had shaken as he dialed. He wasn’t ready to concede to anything Draco had done, but he could admit that his daughter was safe and he was in no state to rip her out of bed and take off with her. That might’ve been fitting punishment for Draco, but Iece didn’t deserve it. Draco had done something incredibly stupid, but that didn’t make him a monster and that didn’t mean Iece should have to deal with a father out of his mind with anger. The right thing to do, was to leave her sleeping and not expose her to one ounce of the insanity he felt.

Turns out, the club was so underground, Jasper told him to wait at the bar. “You’ll never find it. There’s kind of a drug scene and the kids have to keep moving. But the atmosphere is great. We’ll get you in, but you have to let us come get you, otherwise you’ll just keep walking around this shitty neighborhood.”

That put a damper on his intentions, but it gave him time to down three beers faster than he could talk himself out of it. Greg and Jasper apparated in the parking lot where he agreed to meet them. All jeans, sporty nylon and leather jackets, and puffing like smoke stacks on gourmet cigarettes, they looked nothing like the professional quidditch players sponsored by an international agency of peace. They looked like young men on the hunt for trouble, and anyone who looked at them the wrong way was fair game.

The way Jasper wrapped his arms around Harry’s waist and kissed his cheek, warned Harry that these two had already gotten their party started hours ago. They were mid-swing and both sported reddened, bloodshot eyes and slurred speech that hinted more than alcohol was involved. As Greg stood back, folded his arms and greedily watched Harry letting Jasper peck his cheek, Harry heard Jasper’s throaty comment. “Didn’t think we’d ever get you out of that chastity belt. You’re a free mate, mate. Are you ready for a night you’ll wish you didn’t remember?”

Harry relished his own answer. “I can honestly say I’ve already had one of those. I just want to get out of my head and into someone's pants. Preferably not yours or Greg’s. I work with you, I’ll fuck it up.”

Hoots and expletives went up into the night. Greg smirked, as if to say that Harry’s morality show hadn’t fooled him. He still thought he had a chance and Harry couldn’t wait to take delight in proving him wrong. He wasn’t going to let Greg touch him, but he’d make sure the guy had a front row seat.

“Finally!” Jasper belted. “Somebody’s knickers are coming the fuck off.”

They could only apparate so close to their target building. “Wizards are running this one,” Greg informed Harry. “They’ve got the best wards. The place has been active for over a year, and still no one’s found it.”

Apparently, the rave scene was part of a network of illegal rings that relocated at need. Drug busts were common. Crowds were tied to seedier aspects of hidden nightlife, and the Irish Republic came down hard on club enthusiasts who partied outside the boundaries of their permits. Gang activity, human trafficking, and drug epidemics, fostered government raids that kept gorilla entrepreneurs outsmarting authorities.

“The bloke who runs it is smart,” Greg continued to explain. “I heard it’s not even a bloke, it’s a group of bloody business witches, but they use men to represent them. That way, if anything goes down, a bloke who never had anything to begin with, gets bailed out and set up for life, for taking the hit. And it’s all very clever. Police have raided the place three times. They don’t find the rave. All they find is a bit of prostitution and hanky panky in the bathrooms. The real party keeps going leagues below. The punishment is lighter. There’s tunnels and acres of bomb shelter down there, but it’s cut off by wards. Cops only ever find the basement.”

“So you gotta know the right people to get in,” Jasper added.

“Maybe I don’t need to know all that. I’m not looking to traffic anyone or to buy drugs. I just want to mind my own business and have a good time not judging anyone.”

As beer jostled in his stomach, he regretted not having a bite of food. They’d had to walk the last block and his legs didn’t feel so steady. The rundown neighborhood didn’t boost his lapsing confidence any. It wasn’t like the other parts of town, where the festival thrived amid Edinburgh’s proudest homes and markets. Here in the dark, amid crumbling pavement and a faint hint of sidewalk urine, shadowy houses progressed to decrepit buildings with boarded windows and trash strewn alleys. In his mind, Harry reasoned that a good time didn’t have to be had in such a disgraceful setting. Bureaucrats made it so, not people. Illegalizing one’s right to pleasure forced innocent people to risk dark, desperate places. It didn’t have to be so. Needing an intimate connection didn’t come with automatic disgrace. That was stamped upon it by laws and shame.

Well tonight, Harry was looking to swim in it. He was a fucking wizard, what did he have to fear from a grope in the dark?

They got to the building, which looked convincingly empty enough. It was a traditional, three-story block tower that had once held offices and commercial services. But now, outdoor night air whistled clear through an array of empty panes from one side of the building to the other. Harry could see the leaning, modular cubicles abandoned inside, and piles of trash and broken furniture scattered along crushed tiles. Neglected landscaping hid the ground-level of black-faced windows and torn canopies. Broken glass littered the walkway bordering the property, giving credence to the caution tape and signs warning trespassers of full prosecution for their illicit squatting activities. So why didn’t the government clean it up?

Harry decided that he was far too sober for this, and committed to not thinking about anything else but the burn of alcohol he was steadily making his way towards.

A series of covert whispers between Greg and a hooded night-creature-person, whose jersey was too exaggerated to reveal his face, got them through a side entrance and down an unlit flight of stairs. The only light, was the wand of a fourth person Harry hadn’t known they were following until it occurred to him that a stranger was guiding them further underground. Jasper took his hand. “Hold onto me.” And Harry followed, brushing figures who blended with the dark. Apparently, there were pockets of crowds lining the tunnel structures that got them to the lowest parts of the building. The floor felt like bare concrete beneath his shoes and when it began to thud with unnerving vibration, he knew that he’d passed some ward that had made the detection of music impossible.

Dark confines smelled of dust, warm mildew, body odor, chemical resin, and poor choices in cologne. He stifled the desire to hold his breath and told himself that it didn’t matter. They’d be out in an open room soon, and he’d have air to breathe. At last his party broke through into a wider space. A DJ’s beats seemed to rev up out of no where as they pooled out into a vaulted room with stone walls, pink lights, and pulsating bodies. His ear drums tightened painfully and he tried to think of a spell that would mute the noise. Jasper noticed his grimace, withdrew a clear package from his pocket, and thrust it into Harry’s hand. “Protection,” he grinned.

Harry looked at the ear plugs given to him. Maybe coming in off the street, without the benefit of being able to adjust to the noise, was normal. He thanked Jasper and put them in. He could still hear the massive, electronic roar coming from speakers mounted along bare walls, but it was less painful.

“Where do I get a drink?” As soon as he’d asked it, he realized it might seem naive. This wasn’t exactly a bar. Did people bring their own? How did it work?

“Fire Whiskey's that way, mate.” Jasper pointed. Harry followed the trajectory clear into another room, separated by beams the thickness of railroad ties and the length of steel girders. In the negative spaces, he saw that it was mostly dark, but pink and green lights alternated, giving him second-flashes of a tavern-like space filled with young, amped bodies. Compared to that room, this one was just a foyer. People were pressed so tightly into that open floor space, that they looked like wiggling bits of indistinguishable limbs. They were one massive, multi-appendaged creature, erratically shaking to vibration that shook Harry’s bones. They thrashed in unison, creating a colony of jerking heads and arms that moved to individual needs, but together created one undulating organism. Harry decided that it would look far more appealing if he were drunk.

He had the overwhelming need to rush everything, to make sure he didn’t back out. Instead of fighting his way to the bar, or crowd surfing, or whatever he had to do to get there, he took Greg’s arm and pulled him into a kiss. This wasn’t how he wanted to play it, but he had no patience tonight. The kiss surprised them both, and Harry gave him two seconds to enjoy it before he pulled back. “That was for the drink you’re going to get me. Keep it under two minutes, and I’ll give you more.”

Greg’s eyes darkened with excitement. “You’re an asshole, Potter. I like it.” He was off, and Harry knew he was flirting with disaster. But he’d get that drink.

Jasper shouted next to his ear. “We don’t usually drink at these places, we get smashed before hand. It’s not safe. Spit it out if it tastes funny. We’ll make sure you get home.”

Harry ignored his discomfort. If an assassin’s syringe hadn’t killed him, he had nothing to fear from a little recreational drug. Yes, it was reckless, but he’d get wasted, get shagged, and get the hell out. His attacker was behind bars tonight, right? He just had to empty this fucking weight from his soul. He had to drink until this pain left his heart, or he was too unconscious to feel it. If he couldn’t do the trick here, he’d finish it off, muggle style, with the wet bar in his room.

Greg took too long, but the burn was worth it. Harry didn’t care who was touching his shirt or pressing up against him as he felt his blood boil in effervescent reaction. He didn’t mind that Greg took the liberty of kissing his neck as he pulled him towards the center of the dance area. Greg was smart enough to entice Harry with a spelled bottle that created more whiskey from the ounces left in it. In this way, he poured, leading Harry into a dance of blurred motion and flirtatious abandon. At least, that’s what he thought it was. Harry didn’t bother to correct him. He was using Greg to get alcohol, the least he could do was let Greg use him to flirt.

The minute Greg got too handsy, Harry touched his wand and whispered a confusion hex. He staggered away from Greg, watching the other turn, looking about himself for Harry. Amused, Harry knocked into other bodies and new encounters sent him on tangents of distractions. At one point, he followed a pink-haired lady with hair down to her ass, wearing black sequined overalls and no shirt beneath. This was the kind of environment where he could comfortably speculate on having a female, without being worried about committing to it. Whether he wanted her or not, it was nice to feel he had choices again. Draco didn’t control all of that. If Draco was going to see his parents behind Harry’s back, then Harry would just have to take back some control over his own life. He didn’t especially want a woman, he wanted strength. He wanted something that had the power to hold him down and take whatever he wanted to give in return. But he followed the lady for a while without talking to her, simply enjoying what the light did to her hair, which was so so pretty.

He was starting to picture Draco with long pink hair, when someone grabbed him. He thought he heard his name, and as a series of faces went by, each one delivering a kiss, he thought of how easy it would be to dye Draco’s hair. Follicles that translucent would drink the die right up, no problem. Not like people who complained of not being able to keep red dye in their hair. Only, he didn’t want the dye to be dark pink. It had to stay light, like light, like baby-pink, because Draco was beautiful like that.

Someone’s mouth sealed over his and he didn’t complain to feel them filling him, or to feel his shirt slide away from his skin. Bubbles in his veins, in his head, kept him buoyant as the crowd seemed to pass him around, leading him by a hand in the waist of his pants. No one was too greedy and everyone was generous, and until they really held him, he kind of couldn’t feel anything meaningful. It was nice to be anonymous and completely accepted. If someone wanted to rub against him, he allowed it. He found amusement in thinking that a room full of anonymous gropes was the safest sexual encounter he’d ever had.

In his mind, it only lasted a few minutes before he grew bored and freed himself from constraining hands. That was sweet, but he needed something stronger. The alcohol forced him to have to work harder for tactile stimuli. For that, he needed someone bigger, rougher, and willing to go all the way. He cut a path for himself around the dance floor, looking for exactly that. His search took him from the lights, to other rooms, and tunnels, until he found himself walking a labyrinth of underground connections, all converted to a honeycomb of techno music and illicit activities. He liked being a ghost among them, even if he had to pretend it, without fame, without rules, and wandering wherever he wanted.

 

***

 

Ash found himself released from detainment, along with everyone else, close to midnight. He was two hours away from home and didn’t feel like driving the Rover back up the highway tonight. There was too much going on. With all these amazing people walking around, wizards and witches, there literally was magic in the air. He could not be expected to forget what he’d seen and simply slink off to bed as if he was actually going to get some sleep tonight. He couldn’t settle for loneliness, which he usually didn’t feel. But after all this excitement, his drive back promised to be one hell of a lonely return. No, he wanted to hang around people more. The day had filled him with adventure. The evening brought more, seated in a community hall, next to witches discussing their Wizard news and everything they knew about the recent events of Harry Potter. There was no going home tonight. Not without celebrating. Not without feeding the ‘something more’ that would just put the cherry on this day. As far as he was concerned, his life had changed. He wasn’t going back to the old, and he was in a mood to commemorate that fact.

He hung around the city, bought a beer and dinner from one of the mobile vendors, and strolled alongside the river, watching fireworks reflect in the water. It felt so good, he recognized a certain eagerness building in his stomach. Couples holding hands, passing him by, told him what was missing, what he was really looking for. Companionship. When you felt this alive, you wanted to share it. You wanted to shake someone and say, ‘Do you see this too?’ Who else could he tell about this dimension within a dimension?

All the folklore wasn’t bullshit. All those stories had been based on something. Maybe inaccurate, maybe ridiculous, but still about something someone was trying to explain. It reminded him of the theory that Biblical men and women were trying to explain a future technology they had never seen before. A processing computer, or a space ship. Dimensions crossed for them too. They’d used the translated words, ‘It had three brains...’ or ‘It had five faces...’ It took Ash ages to reason out that ‘brains’ were their only way of saying that the object appeared to think, not some multi-headed monster. And ‘faces’ simply referred to the front-most part of an object, like a house facing West, or a window facing the park. When studied between the distance of hundreds of years, common sense seemed to lose all shape and definition, thrusting even a scientific person back into the world of confusion. Historical people saw things they couldn’t explain, they weren’t stupid. It’s only the translation of modern thinking that introduces that temptation.

God, he had questions and he felt so awed, he needed to share it with someone. He’d heard so much, he couldn’t pursue the answers all at once. He knew he’d have to pester Foster. He’d have to make some gargantuan gesture that Foster couldn’t ignore, to have his curiosity satisfied. He couldn’t leave the wizard alone now if he tried. If that meant camping outside of Foster’s rock-cave dwelling till he died of exposure, then so be it. His bones would claim injustice and he’d haunt that damn wizard forever. Foster was a bastard for ignoring him.

It did occur to Ash that Foster’s refusal to speak of himself, or his world, came from a valid need to protect it. But so what. Other non-magical people knew about it. If Foster didn’t trust him now, when would he? Ash had saved his life. Not that he wanted to hold it over Foster’s head, but dammit, he deserved some slack in their formalities. He deserved to be treated as a friend, not as the fuzz. He should have the right to address Foster as Snape. He couldn’t wait to see the look on his face when Ash used his real name. Why it thrilled him to have this little bit of power, he wasn’t sure. He could’ve respected Foster’s wishes and pretended not to know. But this would make Foster take him seriously. Foster, who’s indifference could be such a stunning blow of rejection, had all the power. It was high time Ash had some.

He’d heard terms like ‘muggles’ and ‘birth-father.’ He thought he’d gotten a clear grasp on their meaning in the way they were used. To take full advantage, he’d bought his weight in books that were for sale at the event. He looked forward to the research, and anymore clues about Foster and this Harry Potter. Before all hell broke loose, the witch with the black curls and the nasty attitude, had accused Harry of being the little girl’s birth-father. If that word meant what it sounded like, maybe there was a connection to what he’d witnessed when Foster was unconscious. Maybe all people in the Wizard world were anatomically variant somehow, and that was normal, though Foster denied it.

Ash remembered the day he got up his nerve to ask. Foster had been moving about without assistance for a month. Outwardly, his wounds were mere scars, but the venom had damaged his nervous system. His speech, and motor coordination needed more time. He walked with a cane. Ash had had reservations about leaving his granddad’s old stick by the bed, but once it proved to be useful as an impersonal tool, Foster took to it. Anything that spared him physical dependency upon Ash, was welcomed.

Bloodwork from the toxicology sample, had come back with a fascinating report. Ash’s friend at the AMA, wanted access to the blood in a donation capacity.

“There are antibodies in here that could help snake victims and bloody immune disorders the world over. It’s better than spring water, mate. We dropped the HIV virus into it, and the damn thing died. What can you tell us about your patient? Where’s he from, what sort of background?”

Ash lied. “He was on the run. I only had him for a few hours before he escaped, I couldn’t hold him.”

“And what made you draw the blood?”

“I wanted to confirm the poison. I wasn’t sure if I was looking at snake bites or not, or if I was treating him properly.”

“It’s as if this bloke has been ingesting needle-tip amounts of the world’s worst venom for decades. His blood is like fortified armor. We think we can save lives with it. We’re going to contact the authorities and make sure the criminal charges following this guy, redirects his arrest to one of our facilities. If we need you to identify him, can we count on that?”

He had to clear the nervousness from his throat. “Ah, sure. Certainly, I’ll do my best.”  
After he hung up, he’d taken a long look at Foster’s silhouette in the dining room, and wondered where all the lies were taking him. Against lace curtains, the cut of Foster’s suit matched the antiquity of an era gone by. Fashion, it appeared, stood still in Foster’s world. No matter what clothes he left out for his guest, the other always appeared in his classic attire. Ash had traced the outline of him, from shoulder to waist, to hip, and came to the conclusion that he wanted to hear the mystery of what lay beneath those clothes for himself. He wanted the information from Foster’s very own lips.

He’d already made the mistake of pointing out that Foster’s clothing surely needed laundering again. As if refusing to waste words on such a trivial concern, Foster had turned from the curtains, dark red sherry in hand, and looked Ash in the eye as he tilted his glass and relieved its contents onto the carpet. Ash kept silent, not sure if his hospitality was being challenged or if the other was simply making a point. With barely a point of his pretty polished stick, the stains evaporated. The carpet lay clean and dry in the next second. Ash never tried to talk Foster out of his clothing again.

But he did come right out and ask for information. “Don’t you think it’s time we talked? You’ve been here going on six months, and I still know almost nothing about you.”

The spot before the dinning room curtains, was Foster’s favorite spot. He never opened them, but planted himself in whatever illumination filtered through the fabric, as if direct sunlight would’ve been too much. The light always struck Ash as being too white around him because the sunlight was perfectly golden and wonderful outside. But for some reason, Foster took his muted. His eyes hardened wordlessly if Ash attempted to make the room brighter and more cheerful, as if were a lifeform that thrived only in partial spectrum.

In their sixth month together, he still did not eat with Ash at the dinner table. In those first weeks, he’d been bedridden. The full extent of his paralysis did not reveal itself until he was strong enough to stay awake through Ash’s examinations. He accepted Ash’s help only as much as he had to. While he could use his stick to get a hold of anything he seemed to want in the way of food and drink, he still needed help to the bathroom. The few times Ash had waited to see if his help was still needed, he was met with glares that demanded privacy.

Ash had to learn to read the man’s silence. He had to learn to communicate through unvoiced tension. Back then, his guest was still more man than wizard, and the boundaries never made themselves clear to Ash. It took him weeks to realize that the extra gold he found by his bedside each week, was as much payment for his silence, as well as for the accommodations. Foster shut himself off in his thoughts and did not like to be brought out of them. When he spied him with open books and scribbling indecipherably with his working hand, he understood that Foster was never idle. Not even when he stood at the window, still as stone. The window was stage one of plans being born. The books with blank pages were stage two of plans connecting together. Ash’s heart sank at the thought of stage three becoming actualized and Foster leaving him without ever giving him more than a glimpse of who he was.

So he’d blurted, while his guest stood at the curtains, “I saved your life. You were going to be arrested. The least you can do is talk to me.”

Without turning, Foster let his words slide, soft as shadow and just as dark, into the room. “You are safer without knowing anything about me. I am repaying my host in kind. Take the hint.”

Something about his tone, struck Ash as unusually tolerant. Normally, if Ash got a response at all, it was clipped and embellished with unnecessary sarcasm. He felt encouraged, which was how he was learning to communicate with Foster.

“Will you at least answer questions that have nothing to do with your crimes, or the police?”

“What is it you wish to know, Mr. Hastings? You’ll forgive me if I don’t rush to ingratiate myself by telling you everything you wish to know. Self-preservation dictates that the both of us would be better off left exactly as ignorant as we found one another. Before you ask, make sure it is in your best interest to know.”

Fair enough. Ash remained at the table, forgetting his own meal. “Why won’t you share a meal with me? I’ve done everything in my power to make you comfortable in my home. My housekeeper doesn’t cook like this for me, you know? I’d love it if you joined me at the table for a change.”

Foster’s straight back mocked him as he heard, “Not wise. I’m going to be leaving soon. I’d rather not become any more accustomed to the company of others than I already have. You’re a smart man, surely you see the logic in that.”

Ash did, and he hated it. “I’ve asked for nothing from you so far. I think it’s a small reward.”

“Ask for another.”

Ash pressed his lips together, thinking. “What’s the tattoo about? What is the significance?”

“Occult.”

“Like a secret society?”

“Like one, yes. That is not the most representative of words, but it is one that you will comprehend.”

“Does it have anything to do with why those people were trying to kill you?”

“That topic is not exemplary of our agreement.”

“Okay… I’ve seen you move things without touching them. With that stick. You have no reservations about letting me see you use it. Does that mean you’re what Reuse calls a wizard? She claims it’s magic and that she’s a witch who has the sight to let her know.”

When Foster was slow to respond, Ash felt embarrassment creeping into the conversation. He was about to apologize for his venture into fantasy language, when Foster replied, “Your housekeeper’s magic registers to me at three-quarters of her potential. If she were to carry a gifted child in her womb, she could regain an eighth of what has been diluted through nonmagical breeding. If she practiced any of the crafts handed down to her with consistent discipline, she would trigger dormant strains to awaken within her. By the end of her life, she could regain fifty percent of the abilities currently lost to her line. Genetics are only one side of the magic. The other is practice. It’s what imprints the genes to begin with.”

Ash nodded to himself. Of course, Foster had put more thought into his housekeeper than into Ash as a deserving host. Maybe if he padded around the house in barefoot hosiery, he’d get some attention from this man too. He was out of patience.

"Are you a man or a woman?" He thought he saw Foster’s back tense. Good. He knew how to be an insensitive asshole too, though he was not as polished as Foster at it.

His guest’s voice dropped an entire octave when he bated Ash. “You seem to imply that there is a reason to doubt what you see before you. Is the risk of offense worth taking?”

‘Hey look’, Ash wanted to say, ‘We’re talking like real people for a change. I’ll risk it.’

Instead, “You know that I took care of you when you couldn’t take care of yourself.”

“There was never a moment when I couldn’t take care of myself, Mr. Hastings. To your expertise, my condition may have appeared quite dire and alarming, but I have resources that would’ve seen me mended and functioning irrespective of your treatment, if left alone.”

“I saw something. Quite unusual. I’m a doctor, it’s only natural that I have questions. Well, anyone would have questions.”

Foster turned stiffly, and measured out toying words. "To have questions, is one’s right. To demand answers, is one’s folly. What did you see?"

Ash knew a dare when he heard one. "I saw both. Male and female. One after the other."

Instead of feeling the rush of relief, after months of not knowing how to broach the subject, Foster’s stare filled him with greater, colder uneasiness.

Ash added, “Please understand, I’m only asking in a professional capacity. Doctors see aberrations all the time. Hell, a percentage of the population has to be fixed before parents can claim to know if they have a boy or a girl. It’s that common. But what you have, well, I’ve never seen a documented case like that before. Is it because you’re a wizard, or whatever Reuse says you are?”

Foster was still on Ash’s first question. He would not be rushed ahead, no matter how uncomfortable his stare was making Ash. "Then I am that. It is of no consequence to you. If you must address me, you may refer to me as Mr. Foster, as you have been doing."

He sipped his sherry, his eyes never leaving Ash.

"Are all wizards like that? Possessing hidden equipment, perhaps?"

"That is absurd."

"Then you are unique among them? I only ask out of medical curiosity. I came to this village five years ago, and I'm still an outsider. I was told to respect the people's folklore and culture, and that wizards and witches are taken seriously here. But I was never introduced to one properly."

"And how would you know? No proper wizard or witch advertises themselves to the ignorant."

“Which is why your company intrigues me so. I saw what I saw. I’d hoped I’d taken care of you well enough to gain your trust in telling me the truth about it.”

In the end, it was this relinquished honesty that inspired Foster to lower his drink, cross the floor, and take the opposite seat at the end of Ash’s table.

“I will share a meal with you, Mr. Hastings, if you let this discussion drop. Suffice it to say that no, not all wizards are equipped in such a manner. Our men are men and our women are women. But our magic can blur the lines and even amongst ourselves, that is an extreme that one would not normally choose. Like my tattoo, and the injuries that you so graciously tended, what you observed is nothing more than a vestigial trait from a life long left behind. Just as my identity requires censor, you will not be privileged to the history that has caused these various injuries and traits to come into being. You may think that I am ungrateful for your concern, I am not. I am simply making an optimum situation out of a rather difficult one, and sparing you any further legal implications in the process.”

Ash blinked back his surprise. But he still had to know in basic terms. Foster’s skin was too smooth, his manner too pointed, and his demeanor too reserved, in spite of having a whip for a tongue. His appearance seemed overly dramatic, from the resin-black hair to the sweeping coat and busy modesty. Something was off. There was too much elegance in his hands and in his walk, in spite of partial paralysis. It was as if he’d used his body to stage excellence before the eyes of others all his life. It was a form of vanity and intimidation all at once. Ash couldn’t put his finger on it, but he could make Foster say it.

“Do you see yourself as a man, then?”

Foster waited. He allowed Ash to hear the after silence of the question, and what he was really asking.

Finally, with narrowed, glinting eyes, he responded. “I understand that you have never knowingly looked upon a magical person before. I understand that your hospitality did not come with voiced expectations, yet you have expectations all the same. Let this sink in, Mr. Hastings. I will not be paying for your discretion and care, with the likes of my body. At no time will you be allowed to satisfy your curiosity by any means other than questions, and you have already exhausted your limit where those are concerned. Whatever you saw when I could not conceal it from you, do not let yourself be further distracted by it. It does not, and will never, have anything to do with you. To consider such a thing, would be of little use to either one of us. Do not fix your mouth to ask me to sleep with you. Ever. If you do, however charmed you are to have a wizard in your home, my stay will end as abruptly as it began and you’ll be left to find enchantment elsewhere. Do you understand?”

At the time, Ash had to agree. But he’d learned two things from Foster’s response. How curious and attracted he was, in spite of his own logic and background. And that Foster was fucking harsh. Never? Ever? Wasn’t that a bit much, for someone who not only saved your life, but kept you from going to jail, possibly prison?

He didn’t have to sentence Ash to the realm of Neverdom. It would’ve just been more humane to let him think that the idea was simply ‘unlikely.’ Ash could get a lot of mileage out of unlikely. But ‘never’ stopped everything cold. It’s not like Ash could ever forget what he saw. There was nothing vestigial about those details. Fully formed, fully functional in appearance, and different genders at different times.

Ash had known the likelihood of ever getting a chance to examine such a phenomenon ever again, which was why he’d deliberately touched and prodded and seen what he could while he’d had Foster under. It had all been strictly professional in context. He’d had to make sure it was real before he took a chance on approaching Foster. Just in case. He was a doctor, after all. He had to be sure of what he was seeing before he could make any kind of educated decision.

No matter how many times he rationalized his actions, he still felt guilty. And to hear Foster’s declaration of ‘never’ echo in his memory, made him more bitter about it. If Foster wasn’t a woman, then why was he acting like one, keeping Ash at an arm’s distance? It was somehow worse than being told that he was simply not attracted to Ash.

It was just the sort of entanglement of guilt and loathing that had Ash driving the town, going hours out of his way, looking for a soothing substitute. At the time, he’d had no choice but to finish his dinner with Foster, in bland conversation. He took revenge by enjoying the way Foster’s hair fell forward, like a woman’s when he bent over his stew. A very large and prim sort of woman. Of course, the well-formed masculinity peering out from Foster’s face, made him undeniably male, bold and hard where any female would be soft, and straight-edged where most women were rounded.

In his mind, Foster’s straight jawline curved, and his lips, pausing over his spoon, were ribboned with wine red softness.

Ash had driven the town in search of a big-boned, dark haired beauty, who could’ve passed for Foster’s sister. His first wife had been damn-near anorexic, and thin women only made his heart hurt. Their protruding rib cages haunted him with his ex’s stage three diagnosis. A diagnosis that disappeared the minute the divorce came through, as if he’d been her cancer all along.

His second wife had taught him that he needed something with meat on her bones, and someone happy to be in her skin, no matter how excessive that skin was. It was more flesh to hold onto, to warm against and feel enveloped by. If nothing else, Foster’s cruelty showed him how lonely he’d become. That he’d been willing to shelter a potential murderer, rather than stick it out alone, cushioned his self-loathing. Loneliness could drive a person to do anything. It wasn’t a crime to need human contact. Foster hadn’t said a word about his sexual preference, simply cursed Ash with ‘never.’

_Never._

He didn’t deserve that. No man walking around with a fucking vagina, was going to tell him never! He’s the one who should be saying never.

He had no memory of how he’d actually found the place, whether it came from a lap dance, a midnight cocktail conversation, or a number scratched on a napkin. All he knew was, it came in handy when he needed it, which wasn’t often. Sporting a Scottish Gaelic name, The Lorrar, was a lounge that he’d visited a dozen times since moving there. He’d never wanted to make a habit out of it. Being two hours away from his house, it wasn’t exactly a convenient drive. However, the people who ran it knew how to give him the service he wanted. He could ask for any type, and it was provided.

The place was legally an escort service, with permits publicly displayed and registrants medically documented. It wasn’t a crime to exchange money for sex, but it was illegal to organize it. With recent laws changing, the service got tricky. No one could prove that any escort was a sure thing, and the lady or gentleman in question was certainly free to decide how far they wanted to take the evening.

Now, five years later, with the knowledge under his belt that wizards were real, Ash felt fairly giddy when he turned into the parking lot of The Lorrar. Tonight, he would ask for something different.

Lights were ambient and the crowd deceptively thin. He had enough experience to know that the manager ushered her customers from the lounge as quickly as possible, and that the rooms upstairs must’ve been bursting with festival spillover. Pretty girls working the bar were new to him, but the strawberry blonde pouring over calculations in her ledger, greeted him like an old friend. She was a classic, right down to letting just enough gray tell her age while she batted super black, false eyelashes at him and bit down on her cigarette holder. She held it between her teeth and asked him what he was in the mood for. Ash knew those things had gone out of fashion before she was born, but she was nothing if not retro, and wore the 60’s matte lipstick and hive to prove it. She’d told him once, she was all about giving people their fantasies, and she made a great living at it.

He wasn’t going to find wizards and witches here, but he would find magic. It was as good a way as any to celebrate his access into Foster’s world. When the words stuck in his throat, a drink appeared without his having to order. He wet his throat gratefully and she tapped her long nails over the pages of her numbers.

“Out with it,” She coaxed him. It was her job to read people. “You never hesitate, you always know what you want.”

She had a bit of an accent that he couldn’t place.

“Natasha, it’s good to see you. It really is.”

“Same here, Boss. Repeat service always makes us happy. No boyish brunettes for you tonight?”

That’s what he liked about her. To the point. He thought about asking for privacy, but said what the hell and turned up his drink. “I’m having an incredible night. I need an incredible experience.”

“Two girls? You splurging?”

He laughed, but he couldn’t quite make himself say it. “What would you think if I asked for something different?”

She scratched him with her nails and said, “I think I’d need a little bit more information.”

He took a deep breath, unsure why this was starting to feel like a challenge. “I’m curious.”

“You want a man.”

He winced. “Don’t say it like that.”

She slapped her hands with laughter. “I made you blush!”

“How can you tell that about me? Seriously, what vibe am I giving off? My masculinity is at stake.”  
“Honey, your ass is at stake. You’ve been working your way up to this since you started coming in here. We thought we’d let you figure it out for yourself.”

“Look, I love women. I just… there’s someone I been wanting to ask out, and I want to be sure it’s what I want.”

“Did you come here looking for the sure thing, or to play chicken with boys? Cause if you don’t know, you’re going to be pretty sore if you don’t get a happy ending.”

He stared from his glass to her. “Are we even talking about the same thing?”

“You wanna get laid, but don’t know if you’re ready for a man. You want to test the waters. He might be gross. If he don’t work out, you can always go back to my girls. Did I get that right?”

“How did you know?”

“You’re not the only midlife crises we get around here. Sheesh, it’s hardly a challenge. Give me something to work with, Boss. What don’t you understand about ‘I’m a fucking expert?’”

“That’s not very lady-like.”

“Ladies are extra, you know the rate. And I do have a guy you might like. But he’s tied up at the moment. Literally. He’s a little too advanced for you, but he’s a nice kid. He’ll take it slow for you. You want him to be the virgin? Name’s Kevan, one of our best. That way you can maintain the illusion that you know what you’re doing. Or, you can ask him to teach you. No shame in that.”

At this, he looked down. She had no shame, not that he wanted her to, but he was not prepared to be the blushing one. He was sure his face must’ve been more colorful than the fireworks downtown. Apparently, the idea of using a man to adapt to an intimate encounter with Foster, however hopeful, thrust him back into the stone age of his sexual confidence. Had he really come here to practice holding a man? To see how far he could go before his sensibilities called him back?

Foster had practically bitch-slapped him into keeping his hands to himself. If he wanted another go at it, if he stood a chance, he’d have to be sure he could handle it. He’d have to be sure that the urge to touch Foster, to hold him, could actually go somewhere. Ash had to know what he wanted for himself. If time spent with a man went no where, then fine. There was always women. But if he liked it, if he knew how to make it work without flinching, he might bring more certainty to whatever game Foster was playing. Where there was a vagina, there was a man trying to get in, and he wasn’t going to let homophobic repulsion keep him from it. Foster clearly saw himself as a man, so Ash would have to take the approach of a man lining up with another man. At this point, painfully excited by the thought, it didn’t matter who had what bits. Ash simply didn’t want to look stupid and inexperienced when he took another chance with Foster. After seeing what Harry Potter showed everyone in that tent, there was no going back to pretending that he could happily live without touching Foster.

He looked up at Natasha. “Yes. I want him. Get me Kevan, your best guy.”

Turns out, Kevan was booked for the next hour. “Have another drink while you wait, on me,” Natasha said. “You taking Kevan out, or you want a room here?”

“Here will be fine.”

She patted his arm and left the table. Not wanting to dull his eagerness, he nursed his one drink and practiced the idea of touching another man sexually without flinching. He’d need his best poker face. He’d forgotten to ask how old Kevan was. It wouldn’t work if they guy was too young. She’d said he was experienced, so he got points for that. He needed Kevan to be of a general build and weight comparable to someone over the age of thirty. That was as close as he was probably going to get to a match to Foster. He wondered if he was overthinking it.

When twenty minutes passed, and his fantasies were just making him stir crazy, he let them go and looked around the room. Escorts talked casually with clients, and with each other in paper-lantern corners. Soft music set pace to everyone’s conversation. A shadow blocked his view, and a male bartender he’d never seen before, said, “Natasha says your room is ready. Kevan will be with you shortly.” He pushed the card bearing entry codes in Ash’s direction.

Ash palmed it and stood up. He knew where to go. He thanked the guy and headed for the stairs. Palms sweating, he decided to take the elevator instead. He felt how strong the drink had been when he had to hold himself up next to three other people who entered behind him. Amid strangers making out and stumbling against him, all the wrong buttons were pressed. It gave him an eyeful of what was going on, on the other levels. One of the floors appeared to be a rented party. Something that looked like a sixty year-old man sporting a coat of gray pubes, while chasing a young woman wearing only her underwear, ran across the open doors. Ash tried to keep his drink down and hurriedly pressed for the doors to close before anyone else could get on.

The next stop opened onto a quieter corridor. There were people standing in a tiled hallway, all queued up for the use of a bathroom. Black lights illuminated white shirts and brilliant teeth. His eyes didn’t have enough time to adjust, but he thought he saw groups of people huddled together. He knew he did. He had encountered that room before, and had never had an interest to explore. The Lorrer catered to all kinds of people, and he didn’t judge them. He knew there were shirtless men in compromising positions in those shadows. They were not lined up to go to the bathroom. They were lined up to get their share. He could only imagine the kind of free-form service being offered on the floors of those cold tiles.

He found his room and rinsed his face in the sink. He was really doing this. With a man. That first encounter decades ago didn’t count. That had been out of desperation, not choice, and it wasn’t the same thing to him at all. In the room, he couldn’t sit still, he couldn’t watch TV. It was an okay room, all things considered, but the point was sex and while he wasn’t doing it, that left too much time to doubt himself. If this Kevan guy didn’t show up soon, he wasn’t sure he had the patience to see it through. Something very edgy and unsure was starting to knot in his stomach.

He closed his eyes and saw Foster standing at the curtains. Foster shrouding himself in silence. What would it take to see all that composure undone?

Foster would later have a reason to leave, return, and leave again. It would be months later that Ash would piece together that Foster’s stance at the window was more than that of a recovering man slowly regaining his balance. Foster’s assessment of life around him, had extended far beyond Ash’s curtains, down to the soil itself. In perfect stillness, his intelligence, had looked down the village roads, seen evidence of strife, of half-burned churches, rebuilt homes, and hollowed out schools. He’d tasted stagnant moisture suspended in the air and felt the limp of crippled wildlife hiding underbrush. It was through him that Ash would learn how scarred the land really was, having endured the wars of wizards and men long before Ash’s arrival. He would allow Ash to remain in his life as he gave himself the purpose of reviving poisoned earth and monitoring the water from his seaside shelter.

In the end, the only way Ash could stay in his life, was if he agreed to be Foster’s middle man. He would take the bottles that Foster provided and give his best sales pitch to get his neighbors to use them. Foster advised him to focus on one person in need, and the results would do the rest. Trying to hold onto Foster, Ash convinced others to try these new nutrients in their gardens, or add these vitamins to their water. He had them checked out, and could find nothing more threatening in them than what a bottle of multivitamins contained. Eventually, the villagers held him responsible for the health of their crops, the healing of their livestock, and the return of their hunting grounds.

Ash never lied to them. He always said he wasn’t the one to take credit, and when they demanded to know who was, he pointed over the ridge from his house. “There’s a man by the sea. Likes to keep to himself, but he’s brilliant. He knows I’m a doctor and gives me things to give to you, that’s all. He’s always bent over something he’s brewing. I can’t get him to come out.”

“Well give him our regards,” his neighbors answered collectively and pressed baskets filled with homemade dinners into his arms. “A man that hard at work, ‘ought not be disturbed then.”  
And that’s how Foster made himself useful to the people in the village. Without ever meeting him, he remedied their infestations, their colds, and their scandalous symptoms, from the privacy of his  
book-lined cave near the water. Ten months in, Foster produced the deed to the land and offered Ash a contract to host a storefront in the town market on his behalf. He would never make an appearance, but he’d pay Ash to staff the place with two reliable workers who would stock his herbal therapies and keep them available to the public. When Ash explained that it wasn’t that simple, there needed to be permits and licenses. The Food and Drug Administration would be required to approve of everything. He was met with the argument that the village was full of magical people who waited for no one. He insisted that he held Wizarding credentials and would take his offer elsewhere if Ash was not interested.

Rather than let anyone else move in on his relationship with Foster, Ash relented. He hired part time workers and instructed them on how Foster wished for his greenhouse and shop to be ran. He gave himself a leave of absence, which meant only that he wasn’t obliged to keep track of his work hours, as the surrounding populace knew how to find him anyway, and did. He and Reuse cleaned and set the place up till they could find reliable help. Their efforts were rewarded by gold. Reuse bought herself a pre-owned Volkswagen and Ash installed a hot tub.

Now, Ash lay across the bed with his eyes closed, just to ease the tension. His hand slid to the pressure in his testicles and he squeezed, knowing that was not going to do a damn bit of good. He suddenly knew what he wanted. And it wasn’t Kevan. Why hadn’t he allowed himself to see it before? A room full of men, allowed to be men, allowed to get their fill of anonymous hands, tongues, and hot openings in the dark, was exactly where he needed to be. He knew what happened in backrooms. It was an atmosphere far more conducive to exploring his sexuality than setting up arranged sex. The minute he didn’t like something, he could just walk out. Get his kicks, then walk out. It was that simple.

Back on the elevator, he told himself not to think. Those men knew their own. They might smell inexperience and fear on him, fear of losing his license, his reputation. They might reject him. He had to be serious about grabbing dick. He had to be okay with someone grabbing him. That lower level was where he could put himself to the test. Natasha hadn’t mentioned it, but then she’d been trying to provide him with a premium experience, not the gutter-most.

He braced himself for awkwardness. For being outright shunned, or worse, ignored. At one time, he knew his looks could get him any girl he set his sights on, provided he kept her laughing and distracted by displays of affection. He tended to take on his father’s laugh lines with age. And while he could no longer run a mile in under seven minutes, he could still run one. These men were said to be harsh when it came to bodily perfection, and he wasn’t sure if he was up for that kind of competition. He wasn’t sure how to work his way around a man. Aside from the obvious carnal appeal, he would have to learn from scratch. If that meant being the wallflower for the first time in his life, then it was a start.

This time when the doors opened, black lights revealed only half the people as once before. Ash could see that the queues were gone, and that the place wasn’t one big restroom. It was designed to resemble one, though, with stalls containing cushioned benches instead of toilets. There were cubicles, floor to ceiling mirrors, swings, and bodies writhing against pillars that rose up from the floor. When his eyes adjusted to the dark, he could see that it was a very large open space, not even halfway filled to capacity. With so many men walking around shirtless, and their goods visibly air packed to their thighs, he expected the place to smell like sex and armpits, but it didn’t. It smelled of new, synthetic carpet. Of new textiles and renovation. Of industrial glue and fresh paint. It was just another playroom for specialty clientele. He spotted a few women, but the men far outnumbered them.

He attracted stares, but they weren’t unfriendly, just inquisitive. The floor seemed to be throbbing to a beat of muffled music, like someone having a party beneath eight inches of concrete below. The soles of his feet vibrated. The first touch came at him from behind. Not at all aggressive, but courteous in the way that it tapped him. A blue color tube hung around the young man’s neck as he offered his hand to Ash, who shook it. He couldn’t be sure of any discernible features in the shifting light, all he could do was stare at the twenty-something who fell back into the arms of an older man who lifted him by placing one hand between his legs from behind, and swung him around while gnawing at his neck.

That, Ash decided, was hot. The couple seemed to invite him to stare as they found a broad pillar and continued making out. Far from offended, Ash’s stomach warmed to the idea. He got it. This place was a meat market. People didn’t come here to be swept off their feet. They came to be handled out of their minds. He was pretty sure all he had to do was make eye contact with the right person. Wishing he had one of those glowing blue cocktails he’d seen the guy holding, he licked his lips and headed for the black lit cubes he hoped was the bar. He never made it.

All he saw was shadow. All he felt were muscles. The mouth that clamped over his was very young, very strong, and very insistent. There was the temptation to draw back, to proceed with caution, but there was also the pressure to crash on ahead. Sink or swim. It was just flesh, and he had to prove that he could handle a man. He had to make himself ready to do this to Foster. It was all about gaining experience and being prepared. Ash felt solid arms enclose him, and a fabric covered, pulsating body invite him to drive his erection against the man’s thigh. A thick hand covered his own and drew it to the stranger’s crotch. Ash explored, mindful of how his brain recoiled, thought about it, and recoiled again. But there was something intriguing about feeling another man’s penis expand so fast in his grip. It was one thing to congratulate himself on his own endowment, but another to hold all that force of blood and hardness apart from himself. He decided he was being squeamish, and slid his fingers against the silken tube of iron flesh, in earnest. Moans and wet breath sprayed against his ear. The stranger’s weight crumpled full on him, and he heard the man plead for him to continue exactly like that.

No one interrupted them, and Ash thought this was rather like a beginner’s course, as he kept up his actions. The man seemed happy to have what he was getting, and gradually, the fear of having to deny someone a blowjob, or worse, softened. By the time another's chest pressed against his back, and another hand caught his swollen bulge from behind, he was in a zone too pleasurable to turn back. At least three bodies rocked against their own friction and Ash was far from minding it.

Two blue martinis and an hour later, he was on his fourth victim. He hadn’t come that many times, but he’d made sure others did. He was learning. Turns out, he was good at touching men the way he wanted to be touched. His affinity for the anatomy he shared with them, put him leagues ahead of his experience with wives and girlfriends. The current mass of slender torso and straining limbs, heated against him, responded to his strokes with a throat full of tremulous, male cries. In the dark, the man was a dervish of scattered dark hair, wire rims, and blistering lips. With the others, Ash had let himself be kissed, and enjoyed the play of it, but this was the first one he dared to enter as deeply as he could. And allowed to enter in return. The guy was a great kisser. His lips quested, warning gently before they pushed Ash’s mouth open. His tongue slid inside so silkily, Ash took delight in the chills it gave him and sucked receptively to show himself that he could handle being penetrated in this manner. The guy’s jaws were strong, and conveyed his insistence to eat his way deeper into Ash.

It was more sex, using only his mouth, than Ash had ever thought possible. These young people were amazing, with all this new sex energy. The whole experience of giving himself so completely to the act of kissing another man, was new to him, and he threw himself into it.

The guy's mouth, in texture and taste, was like the sweetest white Tilapia he had ever tasted and it melted on Ash’s tongue. He couldn’t believe a human being tasted like something that could actually be ingested. He should’ve been ashamed to make the comparison, but that was a really delicious, naturally sweet fish, and he wasn’t. His scientist’s mind told him that it was a pheromone phenomenon, not a reality. Evidently, chemically, he and this young man were sexually matched. He could tell the guy was young by his build and his eagerness, and the way he lost control when Ash sank the hilt of his hand deep behind the boy’s balls and wedged it as far into the seem between his ass cheeks as he could go. Even through his pants, the young man seized against him, fighting to maintain contact with Ash’s mouth as his body jerked and emptied itself against Ash.

The guy’s shirt had long since disappeared and his naked chest sealed itself in fused sweat against Ash, who continued to stroke him through his pants. The guy’s release had been so strained and violent against him, Ash rather liked the challenge of holding him in one place while he finished, and wrenching the very last out of him as he pulled through the fabric.

I could do it, he thought. I could put this guy in my mouth. He’s clean. He tastes great, and he comes like a freaking locomotive. All power, no breaks. No regard for who’s holding him and what sort of damage he’s doing. He had to admit, he liked that.

In the next second, Ash feels cool air come between him and the body embedded against him. He hears air burst from the young man, a gasp, like he’s being punched. Ash’s head splits as his ear drums follow the gradient distortion of a megaphoned voice and a fire alarm. Lights hurt his eyes. Someone trips over his feet, and two people go down in front of him. Others run past. He reacts to the sound of firearms by ducking, but his arms are caught in the grips of two men who hold him from behind. Through a blurred haze, he gazes at the man he must’ve been kissing. Shirtless, dark-haired, and glasses askew, the young man looks back in confusion. His arms are wrenched behind his back as well. He has trouble standing under the onslaught, and the uniforms accuse him of resisting. His arm is nearly twisted from its socket. His red-eyed stupor is so thick, that he blinks innocently at the stick that has fallen from his waist and onto the floor. To Ash, he looks like a man who does not know where he’s at, or what he’s doing there. Across from one another, they are both handcuffed. They are both in shock under the lights. His eyes barely focus on Ash. He barely registers what’s happening, or that he’s now seeing the man he was just kissing. The uniforms shove him around and march him away.

Ash can tell that the young man is too stoned, too drunk, or too something to recognize him. But he is horror stricken to realize that he, himself, isn’t drunk enough. That boy had the luxury of not knowing who he was, but Ash couldn’t say the same. He recognized the wizard who had ripped thoughts from his audience’s minds earlier that evening. He was hardly likely to ever forget that face, having seen it in death and in life. That was Harry Potter. He’d just made out with Foster’s Harry Potter.

* * *

* * *

* * *

 

A/N: I feel like I crawled up a mountain to give you these last two chapters. I wanted to show you that last scene months ago, and had to patiently write my way to it. This completes the first leg of this HP novel, and boy am I tired and blissed out all at once. If all goes well, there will be at least four of these “legs” spanning roughly the same amount of chapters. I’m going by instinct and intention. When everything is planned out, the story loses valuable, spontaneous connections from one event to another, and the story can’t grow organically. This is a huge commitment, and I had reservations about doing it. But my love of these characters won out. I’d appreciate anything positive you can tell me that you’ve gotten out of this.

I realize there are things that readers don’t like, and there’s no way for me to make every reader happy. Think of it like being a guest at a feast. It’s your choice, you can skip dishes that you don’t like. You wouldn’t want someone lapping up your meal, then spending the evening complaining about that one dry dish that you didn’t get right. Be gracious, especially if you’ve made it this far. Enjoy what you can, skip over the rest. This is an enormous amount of work. It’s meant to be fun, not perfect. Not serious. Not even highly logical. Just a fun adventure where the emotional stakes are high. No matter how sophisticated we think we are, we’re just kids playing in a sandbox. So let’s play! :-)


	19. Bail

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harry’s kiss has lasting effects.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Notes: I have no idea how closely Scottish laws resemble American laws. My research is only skimming the surface of the internet, so please forgive any inaccuracies you find. That includes terminology.

It all happened so fast. From his holding cell, Ash pieced the events of the last hour together. He’d just had his hands all over Harry fucking Potter. Foster was going to kill him. He’d wanted to find something amazing to cap off his evening among wizards with. Well he’d certainly found it. Now he sat, waiting to see if the charges were going to stick. Waiting on station bail. Waiting to see if his reputation was going to survive District Court. 

They couldn’t prove he was paying for sex. Turns out, the law was recently changed. He might’ve started out with that intention, but he’d found something better. The public conduct charge was worrisome, but this wasn’t like the instant disgrace that would’ve ruined him thirty years ago. Charges of public sex might not stick due to the reformation of laws that allow a tolerance for heterosexual public sex, to a degree. Places like “lover’s lane” where people were known to make out without inciting lewd offenses, and cultural cruising that would otherwise put LGBT individuals at risk, were they not given the same tolerance, were more generally accepted now. Since no one’s dick was out, a judge might throw the charge out or go for light sentencing. The real concern was being in the presence of drugs, even if he wasn’t the one using them, and god knew what else the raid might unearth. 

As his mind tried to sober, tried to calculate his state and organize itself for a positive outcome, his lips still tasted Harry. His hands still ran over Harry’s back and chest. Each time these sensations pulled him back into those moments, he fought to bring himself back. That was just sex, it was not anything to keep distracting him. It certainly didn’t have to be anything that might present a challenge to his dealings with Foster. It simply didn’t have to, and he’d make sure of it. The trick was to get his mind off of it and stay focused on the here and now. He had enough to worry about. 

But the look of erratic confusion on Harry’s face kept bothering him. Didn’t the boy know where he was? What he was doing? He’d gotten the impression that Harry was such a devoted father, and respected among the audience, that his image was at least important enough to him, to his system free of drugs and his mind clear. But then, Ash was a well respected doctor in the shadiest, most deviant part of town he could find. When you had to have it, you had to have it. Perhaps that young man would not have been there if it hadn’t been for drugs or some other influence. Two raids in one night. He’d certainly seen enough to know that Harry had his share of demons to run from. 

After they took Harry away, Ash saw the boy’s wand being stepped over and ignored, along with crushed cups, cigarette butts, a condom, discarded vaping bottles and upper canisters. It looked like nothing more than trash to these people. While the officers around him shouted at others and secured everyone they could, he tried to slide his foot inconspicuously, close enough to kick the wand further out of sight. There was a divet in the floor, where concrete had eroded from a seem. If he could wedge it in that spalling crevice, there might be a possibility of retrieving it later. 

“Aye! You! What’d you think you’re doing? What’s that?”

Ash realized that hiding the wand was a lost cause. Especially now that he’d drawn attention to it. He must’ve known it from the start, because it suddenly seemed reasonable to say, “I’m sorry, officer. That belongs to me. I’m just trying to make sure I leave with it. It was a gift and I shouldn’t have brought it here. I could kick myself for coming here, this isn’t something I’m used to.”

“And what is it, exactly?” The officer bent down with gloved hands and picked it up. 

“A wood carving. I don’t know what possessed me to bring it here… ”

He gave Ash a knowing look. “Say no more. You are being arrested for lewd conduct, soliciting prostitution, and knowingly or unknowingly participating in the illegal distribution and use of controlled substances. Your words may be used as evidence against you, along with this item. If your application for bail is approved, you’ll get it back along with any other items confiscated from your person tonight.”

Ash pressed his mouth closed. He wasn’t sure what his snap decision had just done, but his claim on the wand told him to stop right there. He lost track of Harry after being placed in a van with twelve other men. It was the second time he’d been detained in one night, for completely different circumstances. All related to Harry fucking Potter. Why hadn’t he gone home when he had the chance? He was a doctor, he had a practice to think about. His name would appear in the papers no matter how this ended. That might make for an uncomfortable spell, a dip in business, but he had no prior arrests and felt sure he’d come out of this. The thing that worried him the most was Foster. 

That man wasn’t likely to be forgiving, even if Ash hadn’t known who he was touching in the dark. As sharp as he was, Foster wasn’t exactly the voice of reason. At least, not when it came to that young man. The feel of Harry against him, the taste of Harry still lingering in his mind, scared Ash into plotting his way around Foster. 

He didn’t call his lawyer, when they had him processed and in a holding cell. He called Reuse. His bittersweet ally. She could be difficult, but she generally took care of him. It just never went the way he planned it. He’d offer her a deal. 

It took seven hours to approve his bail. Outside the station, in the morning haze, Reuse sat parked in her little VW. As a birthday present to herself, she’d had it painted bright yellow. That, and the fact that she hadn’t been on the premises five minutes, and she was already violating the parking law, gave Ash a twinge in his stomach. He waited as an officer approached the car and explained she’d have to pull around to the public parking level to conduct her business. Ash saw her point, “But there he is officer, I’m just his ride.”

The officer grimaced. “You’re still in violation. You left this car unattended while you posted his bail. That’s a misdemeanor, Miss. Be glad we kept our eye on you and didn’t have you towed.”

Reuse batted her dark lashes at him and said with breathy nervousness, “Thank you, Officer. I didn’t mean to break the law.”

The man backed away from her car, letting Ash get in. Harry’s wand had been returned to him, though damned if he knew what he was going to do with it, along with his wallet and keys. He shoved it to the side of his waistband, just to make sure he got home with it. It poked him, but he wouldn’t lay it on Reuse’s seat and risk leaving it. She’d know by now what something like that was, and that he had no business with it. 

When they were out of earshot from the officer, Ash mumbled, “If that’d been me, I’d be driving away with every ticket they could legally give me. And then some.”

“What?”

“I said thank you. You’re a life-saver and I won’t forget this.”

She gave him an appreciative smile. Her slender arms wrestled the stirring as she navigated them through a maze of police vehicles, out of the division, and back onto the street.

“Not a problem. Don’t worry about the money. My Gran helped me out. Out of twelve grandchildren, I’m the only girl and unmarried. I mentioned being short on rent and wishing I could afford a makeover, and she practically threw the money at me. I’ll take installments out of the use of your hot tub.”

“Absolutely.” He nodded aggressively, knowing she used the hot tub anyway. He’d make sure she got the money back before the day was over with. He tried to choose his next words just as he’d rehearsed them.

“The charges won’t stick, you know. My lawyer’s pretty good and they found no evidence to deny me bail. It’s still a petty offense since they didn’t find anything on me. Wrong place, wrong time, that sort of thing. I was hoping we could be professional about this and keep it to ourselves.”

Her sharp eyes cut to him. “Of course.”

She seemed her usual aloof self. Today’s ensemble was a mini dress that looked like it’d been cut from an electric-red tarp. Honestly, that fabric was meant to repel water and guide airplanes to landing strips, not have faux diamond buttons sewn up the front. At least she was wearing hosiery that let a bit of skin show through. Sheer yellow, but still he got to see something nice. Her black hair was down as well. That was a rare treat. The only time she let it drape down her shoulders was when Foster was around. Every other time, she complained that it was either too hot or so heavy that it gave her headaches, but she admitted to being too vain to cut it. “Great hair and nails are better than jewelry,” she’d bragged. 

He could see that he was going to have to spell it out for her. “I’m particularly concerned about Foster.”

“Oh?” Eyelashes fluttered. “Why would you bring up Foster?”

“This whole situation kind of has something to do with him and I’m really hoping you’ll keep this between us.”

Her head rocked gently up and down with a kind of slow comprehension. She kept her eyes forward. “You don’t want me saying nothing to him?”

“Exactly.”

She did something with her mouth just then. A sort of teeth-biting, lip compression thing that Ash mistook for compliance. 

He added, “I’m asking as a friend, not your employer. Discretion is really the key right now. Foster is a wildcard. You never know if he’s going to overreact or ignore a situation completely.”

“Why would Foster care about your arrest?” A half smile lifted her pretty cheek. “You’re as nervous as a New Year’s goose. Spill. What sorta trouble are you in?”

He tried to make light of it, shrugging. “Well, I don’t get arrested everyday. I have my practice to think about. Foster’s shop. No doubt, when the story comes out, both will take a hit. Foster will be sure to have something to say about it.”

“Was it like some sort of public bathroom, George Michael thing? With strangers messing about?”

“It’s really not as sordid as it must seem. As you know, I am single. Dating is complicated. I’m no stranger to paying for a woman’s company. It’s very rare that I do it. In this instance, I simply met someone I liked. Before I knew it, the place was being raided. Till two years ago, that sort of thing was perfectly legal and damn near respectable. How do they go about expecting human behavior to change just because paper work changes, or a vote is cast? It’s human nature, it’s only the uniforms that turn it into something wrong. No one wants to be arrested, now do they? Of course everyone’s going to wag their finger at the disgraced doctor.”

She giggled. “Nonsense. Maybe thirty years ago. But people got so much going on these days, if they find your name in the papers at all, you’ll be a bit of entertainment for maybe ten minutes, then they’ll just get on with their lives.”

“But they’ll never forget. They’ll see me and that’s what they’ll be thinking when they have to decide which doctor to see. And this isn’t over. This could go to District Court.”

“I can’t believe how bloody insecure you are. If you’re just going to wimp out, then you’re bloody better off married. And that’s not a compliment. It was just a bit of hanky panky. You got caught, so what? I’ve been arrested twice. Once for shoplifting in my twenties and once for slapping a police officer at a feminists rally. We all took off our bras and dared the cops to touch us. The officer was a lady, and boy she was not impressed.”

With that mental image, Ash had to remember what point he was trying to make. “In any case, I really don’t want Foster getting wind of this.”

“You think he gets newspapers delivered to his pile of rocks?” She laughed, knowing full well that Foster’s dwelling was nicer on the inside than some people’s homes. From the ruins of a lighthouse, he had a view of the rawest, most verdant isolated landscape, as far as the eye could see, and an unruly swell of salt and sea that kept his dwelling awash in cutting winds and ethereal vapor. Inside, all that wildness was tamed by the accouterments of a cozy home built around a hearth and extended far deeper into bedrock and rafters than physics could explain. His library put the Vatican Apostolic to shame. 

“Hang on. How do you know what Foster’s home looks like?” No one was supposed to be able to see it unless they were invited to do so. Foster was very strict about that. It wasn’t like Reuse was close enough to Foster to actually visit him or spend time there. She was Ash’s live-in housekeeper, after all. 

“Oh, I went looking for him a while back. He loaned me a book. Said it was magic to help my customers find me. You’re always pointing over the ridge and mentioning the lighthouse that’s long gone, so I thought I’d put my walking legs on and take a gander. It was a queer day. Perfect one minute, pouring down the next. I tell you, a storm came out of nowhere. I know my way around these parts with my eyes closed, but I got turned around so bad up there, I couldn’t find my way back. 

“The lightning was terrible. Then all of a sudden there he was, offering me his coat and escorting me into the rocks. I thought it was a bloody cave at first, till I saw all the fancy carpets and books. That place is nicer than your basement. He’s even got chandeliers and antique furniture they don’t even make anymore. Not ratty either, really great pieces. Well preserved, you might say. Who knew he had such taste? And the paintings! Makes you wonder how he got them so high, and all that trouble getting them attached to the stone. My eyes just kept following the banister that spirals up, wondering what could possibly be in all those rooms. It didn’t look nearly that big from the outside. If that’s what being a hermit is like, then count me in. I’d love to have my books and my sewing all to myself. Sell everything on the internet and never have to answer the door. Love it.”

Ash couldn’t stop staring at her. Reuse knew perfectly well that Foster was a wizard. She probably took it even more seriously than Ash, but that didn’t mean she’d earned any special treatment. Foster had warned him never to come looking for him without a good reason. Even Ash couldn’t see the dwelling unless Foster wanted him too. Ash, who had taken on Foster’s wishes to open a shop. Ash, who had campaigned from door to door on foot, offering a variety of bottled and powdered wares to his neighbors in order to build a trusting client base for Foster’s store. He’d given out everything from free samples of tea, soil neutralizer, to environmentally friendly barn and basement pesticides. 

He knew the fake, hallucination of a storm that Reuse was talking about, and he’d nearly died in it. The only way he stepped foot into Foster’s dwelling was after he’d collapsed to his knees from the exhaustion of not being able to find it, and fell face-first into the mud. And even then, he stayed within the entrance of the dwelling, looking past Foster’s shoulder, at a cylindrical open-floor layout of tables and glassware that could’ve come from Victor Frankenstein’s lab, and layers of curved, stone walls that supported black cases of books upon books. He never saw the chandelier, or got to look at cushioned furniture from the vantage point of sitting on it. But he had seen a waterfall. It cascaded from what he could only guess was a forty-foot height, and pooled right into an open place into the floor. It was a rockwall backdrop to an otherworldly place of comfort, study, creating, and research. His questions of how the books were left unaffected by the moisture and the spray, went unanswered as he was ushered out shortly thereafter, and warned not to return unless he was called for. 

Was he expected to believe that Reuse simply charmed her way into the man’s hideout?

“Foster doesn’t seem to mind your knowing where he lives?”

“I think he likes the company. He’s not the loner he pretends to be. Depending on the subject, he can really talk a girl into her wine. I think it helps that I come from a family of witches, but he’s the real deal. None of my people can do the sort of magic he does. Now that he’s gotten used to our Friday dinners, he’s usually waiting on me and I must say, I like the attention.”

“Friday dinners?”

“Well not every week, but it’s starting to average every two weeks. Every time I go, he shows me something from a book that solves years of issues I’ve been having. It’s like he pulls out the perfect book. No wonder they’re even in his bedroom.”

“He has a bedroom? And you were in it?”

“Of course he has a bedroom. That’s where I measured him for his new suit of clothes. I can’t wait to see him wearing them.”

She kept talking without realizing how rigid Ash had gone beside her. He had to shut her up. “Stop stop stop! You got Foster out of his clothes? In his bedroom?”

“I’m a seamstress, we’ve grown quite comfortable with one another. He’s old fashioned but it was entirely appropriate once I showed him pictures of my work.”

“No. You make costumes for a living. You showed him your silver holographic dresses and Cosplay scrapbook, and he ordered a suit from you and invited you into his bedroom?”

She huffed. “I’m beginning to think you don’t appreciate my talents. I make fantasy clothing for people who want to incorporate the way they want to live into the lives they have to live. Dressing up is total armor. Foster gets that. In fact, he’s already paid for his lot up front, he was so impressed with my velvet coats and Victorian daywear.”

“What does his bedroom look like?”

She took her eyes off the road to glance at him. “Plane. Books. A normal bed. Antique posts. He’s got curtains around it, like a canopy. Forest green Florentine velvet. He saw how enchanted I was by it all, that he did that thing with his wand, moved a bookcase aside, and the whole thing opened up to an overlook. Literally, you go from walking on carpet to walking on bedrock and staring out into this cavern with a waterfall. A real fucking waterfall. The water echos so loudly, he showed me he has spells to buffer the sound. But it’s really beautiful and you can just lay in bed and watch it if you wanted to. It’s lit from his living room below, and it looks like an inner world paradise.”

Ashe felt his chest tighten as he listened to her. 

“I tell you, I was ready to shag him right there. He’s raw and earthy, but he seems to make refinement out of it. Makes me wonder how many more there are like him, and why anyone who can live like that, with that much magic, wouldn’t just take over the world? You know, like become a super nation, bigger than China or Russia, or the US or something.”

Ash wanted to know only one thing. “When you took his measurements, did he take off his clothes?”

Soundless laughter had her shaking her head. “He did not. Don’t worry, Ash. He was a proper gentleman. I think he let me get so close because he’s trying to thank me. When we didn’t know him, we fed him. We got him through a spell even when we didn’t know what was going on. I’ll never forget the day he woke up from a dead sleep and started shooting blue light from his wand. Your walls exploded and I could see clear into your dining room from his bedroom. You could tell he was terrified and didn’t know where he was, even though you’d already explained that to him. He kept having relapses. All I knew to do was keep feeding him soup and use the syringe to restrain him when I saw him restless and another spell coming on. He told me later, that my cooking was so unusual to his pallet, that figuring out what my choice of herbs must’ve been, was the only thing that perplexed his mind long enough to calm him. He said that I make beautiful soups. They were calming.”

“Foster said that?”

“Yes. He’s quite a different sort when you’re not around. Warmer. More human.”

“So I gather.”  
“Oh, don’t be like that. He thinks very highly of you.”

“And what are my chances of getting to see that waterfall?”

Another giggle. “If I didn’t know any better, I’d say you were jealous.” 

Ash held up his hand and pretended to write in the air with an invisible pen. “Here’s a reality check, Reuse.” He made a ripping motion and flung it at her. “Go cash it.”

Her mouth filled with laughter she could not let go of all at once. She suppressed it. “I don’t know what’s more disturbing. Your man-crush on Foster, or the fact that you’re still using a joke like that in this day and age.”

“Oh, please. Don’t play innocent with me. Why would I open up my home to this man, bend over backwards to keep him happy, run his business, run his errands, and run myself into the ground without so much as a fucking thank you? Jealous? That’s not the half of it. I am flat out disgusted. I got arrested tonight because I made out with some man, because I can’t get anywhere near Foster. There. I spelled it out. Are you happy? Are you going to skip on over the ridge for your next date with the guy who won’t give me the time of day, even after I saved his life? ‘Cause if you are, I really hope you put in a good word for me.”

That shut her up. The glances she now gave him, were cautious and slightly disbelieving. Her huge eyes would’ve been funny if they hadn’t also looked uneasy and a little scared. 

“I’m sorry,” he apologized. “I don’t mean to take anything out on you. I’ve had a fucked up night. I’m crazy to think I ever stood a chance with Foster. I just assumed he liked men. I’m an idiot.”

She replied in almost a whisper. “I just assumed you liked women.”

“I know, I’ve hid it well, I guess. Even from myself. If anything I’ve said makes you uncomfortable, I’ll understand if you choose not to work for me anymore. I’m finding it difficult to pretend I’m okay with myself. I’m not.”

Before he realized what she was doing, the car was already off the road and bumping along a grassy median divide that separated the highways. Her emotional, spontaneous decision was so abrupt she didn’t give herself enough time to slow before breaking. They both ended up jerking forward into the dash, protected by their seat belts. 

She turned to him and grabbed his hand. “I’ve got to come clean with you. And please don’t be upset with me. I lied, but I lied to help you. Foster said it would be okay. My gran didn’t give me the money to bail you out. Foster did. He showed up before you ever called and said that I should wait to hear from you. He said that I was to come get you and bring you home without delay. When I asked what was wrong, he said that you and he would have to discuss a little misunderstanding. I don’t know what that meant, but I know by the way he said it, he wasn’t happy with you. I made him promise that whatever he had planned, he’d be fair to you. He was obviously not pleased that you’d gotten arrested, but to be prepared to come get you, I was so impressed by that. 

“Don’t make yourself crazy, he has a funny way of showing it, but he does care about you. You’ve grown on him the same way he’s grown on you. Please don’t fire me. I don’t want to lose my job at your place. Please let me keep it. Foster said I shouldn’t let you know anything because he wanted to be the one to do so, and he just looked and sounded so… tight and severe, I was worried. But he absolutely promised to be fair to you. I said I wouldn’t bring you back unless he made that promise.”

As Ash adjusted to her breathless confession, he felt the car rock. Trucks and heavier vehicles sped by. Part of his brain was alarmed at the illegal parking spot, and the other parts were piecing her story together, not sure on which side of it he stood. Foster knew of his arrest. Foster put up the money to bail him out. Foster had made a threat to straighten out a misunderstanding? Ash couldn’t calculate the math on this. Those acts were great, but it meant that Foster knew who he was with, and that was bad. Very bad. His hands were suddenly hot and sweaty. He needed water.

So this was a setup. Reuse was going to hand him over to Foster? Well, that was just bullocks, wasn’t it? If this were a power struggle, she’d clearly hadn’t put her money on him. It was almost like suffering two rejections in one sitting, only… Only Foster had put up the money to bail him out. He could’ve washed his hands of Ash. He could’ve kicked Ash’s ass once he’d gotten out of jail by his own means. He cared. Even if he was only making sure Ash got home so that he could kill him, Ash had a place under his skin. Foster must have intentions, which meant that he must’ve been thinking about Ash all evening, which meant that no matter what Foster said, Ash wasn’t far from his mark. 

He would’ve kissed Reuse if he didn’t also want to make her feel bad for lying to him. They both had something in common. Apparently, they were both attracted to the lure of powerful men, even if it was all in their heads. She obviously wanted to test drive Foster herself, whether she could admit that or not. They were both after the same man. Foster wasn’t going to be threatened by a seamstress wanting to make him a new set of clothes for all the practical help he’s given her. Ash wished he’d played the subtle card, the way she had. A lot more than measuring would’ve gone on in that room. 

Reuse made him realize the bottom line. He wasn’t just attracted to Foster. He was attracted to power. It excited his sexuality and what was more powerful than a wizard as sublimely contained in his shroud of mystery, than Foster? That wizard had the power to heal. Ash was a doctor, how could he not like that? That wizard had practically raised the boy from the dead. If that wasn’t power, then what was? Hell yes, he’d signed up for this. His cock knew it, even if his logical brain was still scared of what it was doing. Bring on the fucking wizard. 

“It’s okay,” he found his voice. “You did what you thought was best. Don’t worry, I can handle Foster. We’ll talk. He’ll bitch. We’ll both relieve some stress and when it’s over things will be better than before.”

“Are you sure?” She was sniffling now and tears stood huge and wet in her lashes. She pulled a tissue out of her pocket. “Because I don’t want to upset you anymore than I have. I didn’t know you wanted him that much. I thought you two were just like really odd roommates who made good business partners.”

It took some doing to reassure her. At no point and time did he hear her say she’d give Foster up, and he listened for it, but her display of regret over her lies was satisfying enough for the moment. He talked her into pulling back onto the road and trusting what was to come next. “Take the day off and enjoy yourself.” 

He had a wizard to face.


	20. Sublime

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Foster send Ash to hell. On another planet.

Thankfully, Ash’s rover hadn’t been impounded. It was parked far away enough from the raid, to be excluded from the drug search. Reuse dropped him off and followed him back to the house. Ash got out on stiff legs. A night in the slammer wasn’t nearly as bad as a morning about to explain himself to Foster. Either way, his body didn’t like it. His joints were reluctant to climb the steps of his screened-in porch. His stomach gurgled threateningly. As he entered, Reuse behind him, he looked up to see the curtains move in his dining room. He had to remind himself, this was still his house. No matter how much persuasion Foster had over him, he would not tolerate anything less than mutual respect. So he kissed that fucking boy, so what. The kid is a grown man and frankly, it wasn’t any of Foster’s business if they wanted to get technical about it.

The silhouette is what stopped him. It always did. Foster was standing in his favorite place. His coat was anvil dark, and just as heavy, against lace drapes that glowed with morning light around him. He kept his back to Ash, who stepped cautiously into the room.

Ash was trying to think of a way to begin, when Foster said without turning. “Let us skip the pleasantries. I have given you every opportunity to disassociate yourself from my past, my challenges, and my crimes. In your muggle zeal, for what your compartmentalized mind thinks of as adventure, you have been a stray on my heels. Since you were prominent in my recovery, I thanked you with my silence and what I could give of my company. I’ve paid you in gold and hoped that you were not foolish enough to want more.

“When you continued to pull at my hem like a beggar, I made a place for you in my affairs. It was more to keep you busy, and it allowed me the freedom to step clear of your constant requirement for my attention, than a show of favoritism. If I have you following my every move, I might as well make use of you. In a moment of need, I brought a boy into your home and exposed my identity and my world to your discretion. In a single night, you’ve undone a tapestry of trust that it took two years to create. I shall not weave another.”

Foster didn’t fool Ash. Yes, Ash dreaded what was coming, but Foster’s body and manner were too sublime to Ash, to pretend the wizard wasn’t sexy as hell. An angry Foster just seemed to make it worse. And Ash’s experience with angry spouses, two wives, had him remembering the best make-up sex he’d ever had. He deliberately made light of Foster’s intimidation by seeing his ex-wives standing with their hands on their hips, berating him for some other failure. It eased the knot in his stomach and gave him familiar ground to stand on. Foster was just a diva of an ex on steroids. Nobody used clothes to advertise capability the way he did. Diva. Ash wasn’t going to be cowed by that.

He replied in his steadiest voice. “I screwed up. So what. It’s not like I did it on purpose. If your magic mirror showed you that I was with this boy, did it also show you that I didn’t have a clue this was the same guy you brought here? He was unconscious the last time I saw him. Prior to that, I’d only just seen his charred body a few days before. You can’t accuse me of doing anything wrong, when I hardly knew what I was doing.”

Foster turned, pinning Ash, not with his stare, but with his tone. “You went looking for any connection to me that you could find. And you found him, and quite a bit more. Didn’t know what you were doing? Sleepwalked your way into his lecture, did you? Force-fed the necessary potions to give you the sight of a wizard for one day, were you? You and he just happened to show up at the same filthy muggle raid?”

Ash stopped him right there. “Hey! I learned last night, that that is not a nice word. It has two G’s in it for a reason. And muggles are not filthy. That’s racism.”

Foster had to blink at the irrational pride Ash displayed, like a three year-old having learned to tie his shoe.

He said slowly, “One evening spent among my kind, does not qualify you to comment on our culture. There are worse names reserved for people without magic, I assure you, and that is one of the kindest. As for filth, I was referring to the drug and needle infestation that accompanied your fun-filled evening and had you sampling the body fluids of every male you came into contact with. Not exactly what I want for that boy I saved, and not a sterile environment at all for a doctor, so yes, my choice of words are appropriately accurate to the discussion. And I never signed any agreement to your concept of racism, or the mass commitment to make it a point of so much focus, so do not hold me accountable for solving your culture’s problem with race. That is your demon, not mine. I will not waste my energy justifying or condemning all the forms that walk this Earth. We are here. As the students say, deal with it.”

Ash stepped forward. “That’s right. You’re a teacher. I learned a lot about you. That boy is crazy about you, and you won’t even let him know that you’re alive. Why not? You’re a hero to those people?”

“Let us stay close to our subject. I am here because I have something to protect, and you are standing before me because you have violated that something.”

Ash held up two fingers, his index finger on each hand. “Harry Potter is no saint. That kid knew what he was doing. I didn’t learn to kiss like that until I was in my thirties. Did you rake him over the coals like this?”

“I am referring to my trust. Mr. Potter’s honor is subject to another conversation and another time.”

“Oh.”

“However, since the two share a side on the same coin, I do admit you have crossed a line with me. You have wanted to be in my thoughts, well you are in them. I’ve thought extensively of what I would do if I could not convince you to stay in your world, and leave mine and Harry’s alone.”

Somewhere in the building threat, Ash realized that Foster might actually have the power to read his mind. Hadn’t he been thinking about occupying Foster’s thoughts all night, and how satisfying it was to think that, while riding home with Reuse?

“Can you read my thoughts? Is that how you knew I was with Harry yesterday?”

Foster could’ve smirked, but he didn’t. He could’ve laughed at his display of abilities, abilities that were childhood lore to someone like Ash. But he didn’t. He moved forward, his coat swaying subtly from his hips and down his calves, as he met Ash halfway across the room. His mouth was a straight and serious line and his eyes ignited with something that was almost like a gift. Something Ash had been wanting to see directed at him, holding only him in its focus, and zeroing on him with velvet black mystery and intent. In that moment, he was the object of Foster’s singular attention and it somehow mattered more than a million moments of scattered and fuzzy thinking that didn’t have the strength to burst into full blown desire.

Fear and excitement held Ash to his spot. He knew Foster was going to touch him before the wizard ever reached out. In that moment, they were already connected and Ash knew that Foster was about to hurt him. Really hurt him. If he thought he could’ve survived it, he would’ve bent Foster to him with all of his weight and used the last seconds of his life to prove that he was in it for love. He would make no move to defend himself. But he knew, while they appeared equal in stature, that’s where the resemblance stopped. If Foster had a lesson to teach, he was going to.

“Are you going to kill me?” Ash asked.

“We shall see,” Foster took his arm. In that next instance, the two vanished from their spots. The room resumed its empty lean, as morning shadows behaved like sun dials against the walls, and breakfast settings were left untouched.

From the kitchen where she’d listened, Reused frowned at the empty spot. She took a fork to her skillet of eggs and told herself that Foster wasn’t going to hurt Ash. They’d come back and they’d all have a nice breakfast. She really tried to make herself believe that.

 

***

There was nothing to reference. Nothing to anchor him. Not even darkness. The change happened so fast, he could only find words for the swirls of color, compression that seemed to flip his body, and the complete absence of gravity, when he stood on solid ground again. Hardness beneath the soles of his feet, told him he had solid ground beneath him. But his legs, shaking from undecided signals sent from his brain, weren’t so sure. He stood across from Foster and rushed his vision to adjust to the dark space around him. Foster appeared in no hurry, and waited for him to figure it out.

Slabs of bedrock glistened wetly. His eyes registered sparse lighting from both torches and lamps. Soft glows illuminated upholstery, benches, complex formations of glassware, burners and tables filled with what looked like a chemist’s staging area. Only cast iron cauldrons were out of place. There were small ones, organized to size on tables, and very large ones that could not fit on any table, but had to rest on the floor. Paintings that looked like replicated masterpieces climbed their way up cylindrical stone masonry, each spotlit in its frame by some cordless radiation of light.

Ash realized where he must be, and hurried to memorize details he instinctively concluded he’d never see again. He ignored his body’s trembling protest of its treatment in the aftermath of apparating. His nostrils recognized deep, subterranean earth and drafty mildew, all mixed with herbal infusions and clove-tinged aromas he could not place. Burnt sage, roots and powdered incense came to mind.

Foster’s hearth, lit with inviting embers, sat low and cozy in the open space. Free-standing cabinets with grill workings and glass faces protected grimoires and artifacts locked inside of them. Tapestry patterns decorated natural fibers of expansive wool carpets. The space was so large, where one room-sized square footage ended, another floor tapestry began, creating a chessboard of evenly toned mandalas, lotus glyphs, and wards in symbolic form. Ash couldn’t know what it all meant, but he knew it connected Foster to his magic, and for some reason he was being allow to see it.

While he was getting his bearings, Foster must’ve moved away from him. He now stood some distance away in the workshop part of the room, his shoes sanding softly against bare rock as he paced and waited for Ash to come to his senses. Ash noticed a flash of tin and copper cookware hanging above a water trough and realized this was also Foster’s kitchen. No doubt the set up worked the way a wizard needed it to work, and its rustic lack of modernization was actually more efficient than anything Ash had in his home. He’d kill for one evening, one shared meal here, even if he had to get in that hazard zone of experimentation, called a kitchen, and make it himself. But he was pretty sure that wasn’t why Foster had brought him there.

He gave Ash a minute to take it all in.

“This is your home. What am I doing here?”

Foster looked like he was actually going to enjoy answering that question. He took his time. Something that could be thought of as a smile, lifted the corners of his mouth. But his tone held no humor in it.

“You wanted an invitation to my dwelling, Mr. Hastings. I have escorted you here myself.”

A smart ass to the last, Ash ignored his fear and tested how much rope he had. “No one will find my body here, I suppose, huh?”

“No one will find your body, Mr. Hastings, because no one will look for it.” He advanced towards Ash.

“I swear, if I die here, I will do everything in my power to haunt you. I might be mortal. I might be a dumb, magicless muggle, but I believe the spirit survives death and I will do to you in death, what I can’t do to you in life. You’ll never be rid of me.”

To his surprise, Foster stopped a foot away, stricken. “Congratulations. You have succeeded in astonishing me beyond my capacity to comprehend such face-saving arrogance. You would command the power to reach beyond the veil of life and death, and yet your only objective would be to disturb my sleep with your bothersome, spectral longing. I’m flattered, but your lack of ambition is the real tragedy in that scenario.”

Ash wasn’t finished. “I’d bend you over your Bunsen burners and ride you till you begged for my forgiveness.”

Either Foster was going to laugh, or Ash was going to die. Something had to give.

Far from laughing, Foster grabbed Ash’s collar and they were gone. In that next instance, splashing water slapped Ash’s eardrums and thundered down the walls around him. Tons of rushing water echoed with reverberating, spanking slaps as it landed in gushes into an open pool below. Ash flailed, finding no stability around him as he and Foster balanced on a ledge of exposed rock. Foster was the one who balanced, as Ash’s footing shuffled to find the best purchase on the slippery surface. Foster continued to hold his collar, and this time Ash clung to him, not eager to fall into the pool many levels below.

From that vantage point, his panicked mind recalled the rooms and levels Resuse talked about. There were indeed spirals of smaller rooms built into the rocks. Steps, starting narrowly from the base of Foster’s kitchen, wound up along the wall and looped through openings where they disappeared and reappeared again as they came back out of the wall. Foster obviously didn’t need stairs to navigate his dwelling and Ash wished he had more time to simply stand in this place in awe, instead of fear.

He gripped Foster’s wrist with one hand, and strained to hold onto his coat with the other. He felt Foster pushing him backwards while holding him upright.

“Why are you doing this? I didn’t hurt the boy.” His feet refused to take him backwards, but struggled to keep him balanced. Every inch cost him as he wrestled Foster’s bulk and found himself losing ground. Foster’s steps carried them both to the edge. If Ash had wanted to, he could’ve thrown them both into a chasm that was only meant for him. Instead, he held on to Foster. Dizziness and panic rose notches as Foster’s thighs brushed his and forced him to the very edge. He stepped on Foster’s shoes to keep from falling and tried not to look down.

Their faces were so close, Foster’s breath warmed Ash’s skin when he spoke. “When I brought Harry to your home, I warned you not to touch him. Perhaps I didn’t make myself clear. Don’t touch him. Ever.”

“I had no idea who I was kissing in that dark room. You know that was an accident.”

“Yes, I know. And I am preventing any more of them. You see, by attending his lecture, you have inserted yourself far more deeply into my world than I can allow. I’d hoped you would behave yourself and leave everything as you found it. But apparently, your curiosity has cost you.”

“No, Foster! You are what’s costing me. Don’t kill me. Please.” His grip on Foster shook. He didn’t notice what the waterfall was doing until it was too late.

“If I wanted to kill you, they would’ve discovered your corpse in your holding cell this morning. I brought you here, to show you this. Look around you. You wanted to see magic, Mr. Hastings. You wanted it in your life, up close and personal, as it were. Well here I am. This is my dwelling. This is my magic. Drink your fill. You won’t be seeing much else for quite a while. And even that possibility could die with you.”

“What are you going to do?”

“I’m going to take pity on you. I’m going to give you some much needed time to think about whether you really want to play with magic and wizards. But most of all, I’m going to give you time to think about whether you really want to cross me ever again. Never involve yourself with Harry Potter again.”

“I won’t. I promise.”

“I know you won’t.” Foster’s fist pushed at Ash’s chest, separating their bodies. “You hid me. You let me recover in your home because you had never held magic in your hands before. The healer in you, wanted more. Now that you know what to look for, you would’ve sniffed Harry out of a thousand mediocre wizards, to own some of that strength. Let it not be said that I never gave you the magic you so desperately wanted from me. Whether or not you can withstand it, is up to you.”

Ash could not maintain his grip. Foster seemed to push him in slow motion and he used his last seconds to grasp the ungraspable. Shoved, his fingers curled around empty air.

By then it was too late to question how the waterfall swelled along the walls and flowed against gravity around them. He was already falling into its whirlpool. A vacuum of tidal waves engulfed him. They churned on themselves, rolling his body inside of them. In the eye of the storm, a tornado of hydrogen and oxygen molecules, buoyed by Foster’s magic, he fell and continued to fall. He remained conscious, holding contact with Foster’s gaze until the water washed it from his sight. Instead of succumbing to darkness, everything got brighter. Molecular bonds broke around him, releasing an effervescence so white, it hurt his eyes and scrubbed his mind free of all critical thinking.

At what point his free-fall turned into floating, turned into treading water, and riding currents by feel instead of sight, he didn’t know. He kept falling.

Eventually, the water cleared again and he found himself looking through murky depths of nothing. He discovered himself standing on wet silt. He patted his body, pinched his skin, and sucked air deeply, to prove to himself that he was still alive. He had to be alive. He was wet and cold and shivering. Looking up, he saw the opening of the maelstrom that had spit him out. It continued to churn waters that would’ve crushed his body under normal circumstances. Looking up was like looking out of a reverse water globe. All the blue, light-filled water remained on the outside of a dome, as if an ocean floor had created an air bubble just for him. And there he dwelt, not knowing how to wake up. Not knowing how he was still alive.

In this timeless place, it took time to realize that this was his prison. Shifting light and shadow were his only entertainment as his watery atmosphere continually transferred fog-like illusions and shapes from one side of the globe to another. Was he at the bottom of Foster’s waterfall pool? He didn’t know. The silence was so expansive, so dominating over anything seen, he couldn’t imagine anywhere on Earth being connected to this place.

Where was he?

Shadows rose close to his dome of air, like giant faces peering in, but revealing no features. This went on for so long, he wondered if he was really existing in a jar, captured by Foster and toyed with until his terror was supposed to drive him mad. But he knew as he thought it, that wasn’t Foster’s style. Whatever this was, he was here for a reason.

He didn’t know where the chair came from, but when he looked behind him it was there. Waiting, expecting. Four legs planted in the silt as if it had grown out of it. He meant to avoid it, but he stood for so long that his legs hurt and he ended up sitting there, thinking of all things, about the kiss that had gotten him imprisoned yet again. He chuckled, not willing to give the absurdity of his situation anything else. It was only when the water began to take on a red hue, that he had to fold his arms and pay attention to the underwater weather. Things moved. Currents sped up. His bubble widened and the red deepened, bleeding through sheets of racing, circulating power. Again, some chemical reaction illuminated the transparency of the waters and Ash was able to see long range distances of ocean topography around him. It was beautiful. Frightening, terrible, and beautiful. As his eyes adjusted to a world of infrared, the chill in his spine told him that he was not alone. But the shapes of the creatures swimming around him, were not human. No where near. And some of them, he knew could never be found where he came from.

It was time to admit that this wasn’t a dream. He was too uncomfortable for it to be a dream. And he wasn’t dead. And red oceans did not exist on Earth. Those creatures swimming just within the vicinity of his air dome, were larger than whales. At least, that’s what their shadows suggested. He was no stranger to scuba diving, having grown up off the coasts of Melbourne and the beautiful reefs there. So he knew alien life forms when he saw them. He knew what belonged on this planet and what didn’t. He knew that Foster’s magic had cast him out of existence and out of his life. But he was still upright and aware, and he didn’t know what to do with that information.

Would he freeze down here? Would he starve? Would the same enchantment that held him prisoner and made sure he’d lived to know it, make provisions for keeping him alive?

When he couldn’t fathom the answers to those questions, he removed the thing poking him in his ribs. He’d forgotten about Harry’s wand. He held it, rolled it between his fingers, and wished to god that he knew how to use it.

* * *

A/N: There will be a total of four updates tonight, or in the AM hours. The next two chapters will center on Draco and Harry. This is number 2 of 4 updates this evening. :-)


	21. Flight

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Draco makes things right.

Morning stretched across the grounds of Malfoy Manor. Draco hadn’t slept in his bed, but had clung to Iece, folded at the hinge of his hips, knees drawn as high as he could get them, into the confines of her tiny bed. She became an extension of his chest. The bed was new. He could’ve given her an heirloom befitting her graduation from baby-bed to big-girl bed, but he wanted her to have a clean slate. It seemed important to get her one, uncontaminated by any of his childhood nightmares. Sleep was a time when the body was at it’s most vulnerable, and required the soundest foundation for safety and rest possible. None of his old things felt suitable for her. 

The higher the sun rose, the lower his heart felt. So he pulled her close and took tremendous comfort in the way she felt against him. Even after she’d awakened, he somehow convinces her to shut her eyes and go back to sleep. A thing not done. She anchored him in a storm of thoughts. What had he done to Harry? And in turn, what sort of trouble had it caused Harry to get himself into? He knew Harry was in trouble, not just because of the blasted watch, grudgingly recovered, but because he felt it. He’d kept his body balled up and uncomfortable to keep from going into deep sleep, not that his mind would’ve allowed it. He kept himself on the surface of sleep, waiting for Harry’s call. A call that never came. 

He couldn’t keep waking up like this. To chaos. To wrist watches that couldn’t tell him what he needed to know. To guilt. 

He called for Jipsy. When she appeared, he whispered, “Find Harry. Tell me where he is, but don’t let him see you.”

He just wanted an update. He needed to know that Harry hadn’t run out of there and gotten himself into more trouble. When Jipsy returned with news of his arrest, that he was passed out in a cell along with dozens of muggles, Draco took a moment to let his anger wash over him. He kept still, willing himself not to move, not to scream, until he felt the worst of it subside. He turned to Jipsy, whose eyes had grown wide at the sight of his trembling willpower.

“Thank you, Jipsy.”

“Will we be rescuing Mr. Potter, Sir?”

He thought about it. “No. If Harry needs me, he’ll call. He’ll let me know.” Mr. Potter would just have to get himself out of trouble.

Ever since asking Harry to join the Ministry’s tour, there’d been nothing but mornings like these. He’d asked Harry to leave, for the peace. To clear his mind. His body had been giving him fits and if Harry was too uncomfortable with the symptoms to help him, then he needed Harry out of the picture. The absence only made him realize he was going to go through changes whether Harry was there or not. After three weeks without him, running around seeing the destruction he left in his wake, Draco was better off having Harry at home where he could keep an eye on him. But Harry hadn’t called. That meant he didn’t want to talk to Draco.

The image of Harry, stripped to his underwear last night, screaming at his parents while they watched on, wrenched tears from Draco. Harry hadn’t deserved that. He hadn’t meant to let that happen and Harry had to know it. Against him, Iece’s bare arms and head felt feverish, but he knew it was his heated flush he felt, not hers. He tried not to wake her, and to let the pain out at the same time. They’d have a better morning if he got this over with.

How many of his mornings had started with tears since Harry’s initial departure? Some peace. He realized he was supposed to do for Harry, what their daughter did for him. Be an anchor. A place that kept him steady, when all else washed away. He hadn’t done that. Somehow, while tending to his own needs, he’d forgotten to be that for Harry. 

Was every night a fight to survive for him? And here Draco wouldn’t let him come home to his daughter. His part of the tour had extended beyond two weeks, and Harry had done his best to honor Draco’s wish for time away from him. He was still braving the elements and wandering from shelter to shelter, just to make good on his promise to the Ministry. To Draco, it suddenly felt like he’d asked Harry to sleep outdoors in the rain, indefinitely, and Harry was still struggling to make that work. 

Perhaps muggle jail was the last torment. He wanted Harry to come home, to make him feel like he had a home to come to. He hadn’t done a very good job of that. Maybe that’s why Harry’s life was tossing him like a leaf in the wind. 

This brought him some relief, because it pointed to what was wrong, and what needed to be fixed. He didn’t know how, but identifying the weak spot allowed him to stop searching for a problem and start focusing on a solution. He couldn’t fix Harry, and he damn sure couldn’t fix himself. But he could be an anchor. He could be Harry’s home. 

He’d gotten what he needed out of their deal. A loyal house elf, and proof that he needed Harry just as much as Harry needed him. 

He woke Iece back up and let Jipsy take her for a bath and breakfast. After his own shower, he set about repairing the damage downstairs. He’d asked Jipsy not to touch it. It was his mess and he’d hoped the punishment of cleaning it up would go towards atonement for putting Harry through such humiliation. But he hadn’t touched it. 

If he wanted to save the looking glass, it was going to take more than a simple spell to piece it back together. And he wasn’t sure he wanted to save it. It felt like another betrayal to Harry, who wanted it broken. When he asked Jipsy for a normal broom and dust pan, she took his temperature with his wrist and asked if he was feeling okay. It made him smile, the first one of the day, and he felt like thanking her for the comedy relief. “Believe it or not, I’m going to sweep up this mess and it’s going to help me think.”

He’d wanted to say ‘relax’ but decided not to push it. Jipsy left him to his task, taking sideways glances at him. They both knew he was waiting on Harry’s call. 

He got the idea to clear his schedule, to just give in and bring Harry back. But he rejected it as many times as it returned. Harry was too pissed. He wasn’t going to hear Draco out, and what’s more, Draco didn’t feel he deserved to be forgiven. Not this soon. Suffer it out, the broom in his hands coaxed. He bent down to lift part of a broken frame from a shard of mirror that kept the shard pinned to the floor. Two things happened at once. The release of the piece shifted the frame, causing connected pieces to pull from the wall. He cut his finger as the jagged piece jutted upward under the weight of what was left of the falling structure. More polished roots clattered to the floor, this time, taking an adjacent shelf with it. 

When Draco stopped cursing and examining the cut on his finger, he noticed what had rolled to his feet. It had fallen from the other shelf. A trophy shelf. The object was a six foot long, black varnished, bamboo precision, customized Chinese Stargazer. A racing cruiser. A broom made for two. Silver pedals shone bright, almost white, against the black luster of the handle. It looked more like a gift from the hands of his father than from Harry, but there it was. Bought at a time when Harry had wanted to say thank you for all the help with his recovery. For every step Draco had taken with him and Iece. He knew Draco’s tastes and wanted to prove that he’d been paying attention, in spite of his lack of interest in the finer things in life. He never splurged, but he’d done so to make a point. 

His words had been like ointment massaged into Draco’s soul. “I need you now, and not just to help with Iece. You’ve done everything for me, and I couldn’t get you out of my heart if I wanted to. So you might as well get a proper welcome, sorry it took so long. Wherever I go, I want you there too. Ride with me.”

At the time, that was as close to poetry as any quidditch playing, snitch-head, like Potter was going to come to professing what he felt. It was a romantic gesture during a time when there was no time for romance. They were just beginning to realize they only had each other, and a newborn baby, to face the future with. They were beginning to warm to the idea. The broom was going to be used for midnight rides as they left the past behind them. But the past was slow to leave and the gift was relegated to a shelf beside other Malfoy treasures.

Draco opened his palm and held it over the broom. He had only to think the command, ‘up’, before the thing lifted, vibrating in concert with his magic. He let his long fingers stroke its smooth surface and tested the weight. His center of gravity harmonized with the counterbalance built into the broom. 

He got an idea. It was daylight here, but it was still dark in Edinburgh and London. There might be time for a “midnight” ride yet. Once it occurred to him, there was no letting it go. He summoned Jipsy. 

“Take Iece to our London flat. Prepare a hot bath for Harry, I’m bringing him home.”

He could’ve apparated to the jail and risked causing a scene. But his Chinese Stargazer said that would’ve been such a waste of exquisite craftsmanship and a brilliant dawn towards London. It was time to fully appreciate Harry’s gift.

After taking a minute to cross reference Jipsy’s details with digital maps, he charmed a layer of stealth illusion to keep him and his broom from being spotted. He left from a window and soared freely into higher elevation. He didn’t get his midnight ride, but storm clouds gave him something similar, almost as dark, and just as thrilling. It was a rain-pelting ride and he added a buffer to help the water go around him aerodynamically. It was just uncomfortable enough to keep his adrenaline pumping, and just beautiful enough to keep him glad he’d done it. 

He found the Guardia, the division containing Harry, and left his broom on the roof while he entered. He could’ve gone to the desk. He could’ve filled out the proper paper work and waited to be assisted like everyone else. But his flight had exhilarated him and he saw no reason to hide his true wings now. He couldn’t help it if others had no magic. That wasn’t his fault and he wasn’t going to tie an arm behind his back just to make the world around him feel better while he felt restricted. He would use his full magic today. That meant releasing an explosive stunning spell that hit anyone who put their eyes on him. It traveled through the eyes. It was only effective at a distance of twenty feet, but that gave him time to walk into the facility, scramble their security cameras, step around uniformed police, and make his way along the holding cells until he found Harry on the floor. His knees were drawn, head resting on them, and his back against the wall. With his wand, Draco short circuited the keylock on the cell. Bars slid open. He stepped over the other men lying on the floor, to get to Harry. Harry hadn’t answered when Draco shouted for him because, he saw when he lifted Harry’s head, some chemical influence kept him in a stupor. 

“Wake up, Harry. I’ve come to get you.”

He tried a few first-aid grade charms to rouse Harry to full consciousness, but the most they did was cause Harry to blink through his dirty glasses at Draco until the fog overtook him again. Draco pulled him to his feet. Harry was heavy and more magic was required to keep him upright and get him to the broom. Once there, he positioned Harry, pulled him close against his back, and wrapped Harry’s arms around his waste. He used binding wards to keep them secure around him, and to fasten Harry to his spot. Storm clouds grew darker as they headed for London. 

As he guided the broom, Harry’s weight against him, was only a reassuring detail. The broom had no problem balancing the two of them and suddenly it didn’t seem like such an extravagant investment for anyone to make, but a practical one. It convinced him they would need a three-seater for family outings, and seared the promise to buy one, as soon as he could, into his brain. Rain cleared as they passed through the horizon line demarcating a shift in time zones. It was easy to imagine what this would be like, with Moonlight on their backs and wind ripping through their clothes. Such flights were filled with enough zeal to soothe a thousand hurts. You could not be depressed and soar through the elements like this. No wonder Harry loved quidditch. It was just an excuse to stay in the sky as much as he wanted to. You couldn’t feel helpless when you were running neck to neck with this much wind power. 

Pink and gold dawn, above the coverage over London, proved to be just as soothing as his memory of midnight clouds. The air was dryer and light dispersed over the city in a way that made him glad to be a part of everything down there, streets, buildings, muggles and all. The world wasn’t so bad from this vantage point. In fact, it all seemed quite deliberate and beautiful. Coming back with Harry against him, felt like regaining something he’d lost. Something he’d forgotten about. It brought him even more appreciation when he felt Harry stirring against him. The weight of his sleeping head lifted from Draco’s back and he heard a whisper as it heated his ear.

“Where are we going?”

Draco grinned at the sound of alertness and focus in Harry’s question. “Home,” he shouted over the wind, and angled his broom for the rooftop of their flat.

***

All he meant to do, was give Harry a hot soak, maybe a bite to eat, and rest. He’d lost track of what Harry was supposed to be doing today. He figured a morning in pajamas, after a jail cell, would do Harry a world of good. He didn’t like the bloodshot eyes and sluggish responsiveness that Harry kept reverting back to, but as long as he answered when Draco spoke to him, he decided to put the breaks on the questions. Harry would tell him why he’d been arrested soon enough. They both had confessions that needed to wait. 

He didn’t have to bathe Harry, just let him soak. By the time he checked on Iece and Jipsy, who was letting her finger paint with strawberry and chocolate pudding, on scattered paper at their dining table, Harry had bathed himself and stepped from the bathroom drying his hair. His glance at Draco, at once apologetic and thankful, reassured that he was more sober than he was thirty minutes ago. But Draco recognized the droop in his shoulders, his clammy skin, and chapped lips as the subtle signs of a body that needed recuperation more than it needed anything. Harry sat on the edge of their bed, not bothering to stand as he pulled on the drawstring pajamas laid out for him. It wasn’t until his fingers were struggling to button the top, that he tried to offer a complete sentence to Draco.

“Thank you. I’m sorry I left out the way I did. You --”

“Sshh…” Draco sat in a plush chair across from him. “You don’t have to say anything. Just sleep. When you wake up, you’ll eat. You’ll play with your daughter, who doesn’t know you’re here yet. Then we’ll talk. You can tell me everything then. I’ll be right here.”

This seemed to be the permission Harry needed to fall back and let go. Draco helped him by leaning forward and pushing against his chest. He had to leave the chair to do it. It seemed only natural to kiss Harry once his head sank into his pillow. His body wasn’t quite straight on the bed and Draco spent a few minutes adjusting him until Harry looked more comfortable. When he realized that Harry was sound asleep, he remained straddled above him and gradually warmed to the idea of straddling Harry’s hips. Just to confirm his suspicions. Just to appreciate what fullness filled his thighs and let him put all of his weight there.

He knew that Harry should’ve been too tired for sex. He was certainly too tired to stay awake for it. But beneath his pajamas, his penis responded to Draco’s pressure. Draco thought seriously about doing something with it. Maybe it was the flight, maybe it was wishing he could’ve given Harry what he’d wanted last night, but either way, the energy was there. It climbed up his spine and made him ground himself against Harry. Arousal saturated his own blood vessels, bursting beneath his skin and spreading from chest to groin. There were so many things to think about. Decisions to weigh. Sex was never going to be a thing of absolute convenience for them ever again. What he wanted most in that moment, was for Harry to fill him. To use his cock to bore the room it needed, even it it had to tear a place for itself. His gut clenched around the thought of being pushed to his limit from the inside. 

He and Harry had discussed the ‘not while I’m sleeping’ rule that intruded on the sex lives of some couples. They agreed they didn’t need it, because Harry wanted what he wanted in the middle of the night, and Draco liked the power of knowing he had something that could inspire desire in Harry from a dead sleep. It had a lot to do with the baby, and not wanting to admit to having needs while they were raising her, as if any slip in conduct was going to unleash the poison Lucius Malfoy had contaminated them with. But she wasn’t in a bassinet at the foot of their bed anymore. They had privacy. They had a house elf. They had the morning all to themselves. 

Draco used a remote to close the blinds with one hand, as his other pulled the drawstring on Harry’s pants. He decided, no matter the state of his body, it was high time he made love to this wizard. Even if Harry wasn’t awake for it, his body affirmed its ability to participate. As Draco pulled the waistband down and kissed, and took Harry in his mouth, he had to believe that his efforts were following Harry into sleep and making a wonderful difference there. 

He tried not to be too greedy or too heavy handed. But Harry was so firm, so beautifully and impossibly hard, it seemed a shame not to take full advantage. He couldn’t take another rejection. He had gained some mastery over the curse that controlled what he could and couldn’t do with Harry. But he was learning that it was an emotional switch, and all he had to do was think about pleasing Harry, to trigger it. He knew what Harry liked. No matter the protests, he knew that the best times for Harry were before the war, and before Harry had to deal with the curse, himself. Until then, he’d enjoyed Draco’s cursed body without the trauma that later ruined everything. Until then, that was the part of Draco that he couldn’t get enough of. And Draco’s body remembered it. Remembered it, and changed to accommodate what it thought Harry wanted, every time Harry was around him these days. 

But Harry was the one who couldn’t handle it. Harry was the one violated by the change in Draco’s body. This is why Draco considered Harry’s sleep to be a blessing. When he could no longer satisfy himself using his mouth and his hands, he gave the emptiness between his legs what it wanted. Discarding pants and jacket, he lowered his open thighs onto Harry’s prone form, wearing only his button down shirt and loosened tie. The shirt provided covering, allowing him to look indirectly at what he was causing their genitals to do. He didn’t need to see. He felt his way onto Harry’s erection and eased himself there until there was more pleasure than pain. His muscles relaxed and told him how and when to proceed. 

From sleep, Harry’s compliance revealed itself in moans that Draco pushed out from him. Harry’s fists even gripped the bed covers, as his abdomen wound down tight on his impending climax. He never opened his eyes. His muscles sprung, lifting Draco as he poured himself from the rise of his hips, into Draco’s body. Draco counted each convulsion, loosing track in the midst of his own. He’d learned to count the waves of Harry’s orgasms, knowing an average one from a great one. His own locked his body so hard, he was almost grateful when the spasms released him and let him fall across Harry. 

It was his turn to place apologetic kisses along Harry’s face and neck. He was sorry for so much, not all of it was about the privileges he’d just taken. He couldn’t give Harry enough kisses to make up for it. Harry’s solid shoulders and torso supported him so soothingly, smelled so good in the aftermath of fresh bath-sex and clean perspiration, he let himself stay there. He let Harry’s breathing lull him to sleep.


	22. Changes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harry and Draco ask for beauty tips.

They slept far longer than either had intended. But waking up next to each other, made it feel like they had the best reason in the world to do so. Draco didn’t know when he’d gotten up, cleaned them up, and put on fresh PJ’s himself, but he had. He’d apparently crawled back into bed and used Harry as a body-length pillow. With missing glasses and tousled hair, Harry seemed in no hurry to speak when he took in the long limbs holding him hostage. His wakefulness was of a better quality than before and both realized why. They’d slept through the whole day. The sun was setting. Burnt orange colored their bedroom walls and cast long shadows across their sheets. They snuggled closer.

Draco’s eyes flew open. It hit him that Jipsy and Iece were running the flat. His body jerked to respond, but Harry gripped his arm and locked on. “They’re okay. We can trust Jipsy. Let her do her job.”

Easy for him to say. He hadn’t seen the finger pudding paint. Jipsy was great, but an elf couldn’t be expected to always see things the way human adults did. Still, when Harry began rubbing his arm, he considered that now was as good a time as any to leave Jipsy to make the wisest choices she could make. 

Cuddling led to talking. Talking led to confessions. By the time the sun went down, Draco knew about the assassin, Tally Dellaway, the CIUM’s job offer to Harry, and the reason for Harry’s arrest. At the precise moment when he should’ve told Harry about meeting with his parents, he decided not to say anything. Harry was opening up. He wasn’t going to ruin that. Not now. 

Harry’s share was a lot to process, and before he invested himself in grasping all of it, he stuck with the most obvious responses. 

“Are you considering a job like that?” He asked because it sounded like Harry had considered it. He tried to keep concern from his voice as he trailed a finger over Harry’s nipple. 

“It would keep you guys safe. Safer than I can keep you going it alone. I have to consider it.”

“No you don’t. Not if it’s not really what you want to do. We can hire our own security. Before you protest, what’s the difference between us signing their check or this CIUM signing their checks? Your number one complaint would be the intrusion on our lives, but I’m telling you, there’s a class of security where we’d never see our employees unless we wanted to. They’re not going to be flanking your daughter on her first day of school, but they will have enough access to put themselves between her and any danger. She’ll never know they’re there.”

“That doesn’t make things any better.”

“We can start her out with the vague truth. Daddy has bodyguards around you because bad things happen. We never mention it again. She grows up never seeing them. And on the off chance that she does, we can remind her that she was told and every attempt was made to give her the freedom to come and go without feeling spied upon.”

Harry’s silence made him think Harry was seriously considering it, until he said, “I want to dye Iece’s hair. Cut it and dye it.”

When Draco realized what he’d just heard, his first instinct was to regret not showing Harry his parent’s video asking for visitation rights. If Harry was just going to ruin this evening anyway, why hold back?

Harry explained, in the wake of Draco’s silence, “For her safety. That color is so recognizable. The press will follow her.”

Harry might as well have said, “I just wish she wasn’t so Malfoyish.”

Draco considered his options. Play dumb and there will be no argument. Point out the flaw in Harry’s plan, and there will be an epic argument. 

“We could spell it. Permanently. She might be old enough for that to be safe now.”

Draco tried to go around, tripping over the real issue. “Don’t be ashamed of her hair. No cosmetic spell is permanent.”

“Then we’ll maintain it until she’s old enough to.”

“What if she doesn’t want to?”

“We’ll convince her.”

“Before or after we tell her about the secret service men following her?”

“I’m serious.” Harry sounded annoyed. “Everyone knows who she is by her hair.”

“Harry, nobody cares about her hair. They’re interested because she’s our daughter. And as far as they know, your only vulnerability. No matter what color you dye her hair, that will be who the crowd is looking for. Don’t put her through that.”

He felt Harry’s bicep tense against him. 

“You sound like it’s abuse or something. People dye their hair like changing their clothes. It won’t be a big deal and it’s the most obvious thing we should do.”

Draco let his chin rub Harry’s shoulder, hoping it would soften the blow. “It’s not what you tell her. It’s what you don’t tell her. No other little girls have their fathers dyeing their hair. She’ll pick up an unspoken vibe that you think there’s something wrong with her. That you’re ashamed of her. You’re her father, she’ll believe it.”

“I wouldn’t make her feel that way.”

“You wouldn’t know that you’re doing it.”

“She’ll be safer. Less recognizable.”  
“Until the first time we’re photographed with her.”

“I know, but something like black is more common. If she’s ever away from us, she’ll be less of a target. We might as well start now.”

“All we’d be doing is advertising our paranoia. What excuse would we give for permanently changing a child’s appearance?”

“It’s for her safety.” Harry sounded like he might’ve been close to tears. “I don’t have a problem shoving that into anyone’s face who asks.”

“Harry, it’s not just appearance. Her hair is expressing her magic. Haven’t you ever heard of that?”

“No.”

Draco sat up. The honeymoon appeared to be quite over. “It’s a thing. It’s hereditary. At the risk of being accused of racism, again, magic can have genetic traits. I didn’t say anything about one being better than the other. People don’t fucking hear that, all they hear is the Hitler regime. The shit that’s allowed to fall out of people’s mouths, ‘all blacks are good dancers, all jews are good with money, all racially mixed children are beautiful,’ yet let it be said that magic is stronger in the families that practice it generation after generation, and people react lke it’s fucking 1942. Which, I might add, is exactly the knee-jerk reaction that caused the holocaust in the first place, instead of thinking it through.”

“Where is this coming from?”

“I have to defend her. You want to cover her up, make her fit in. You say it’s safety, but it’s embarrassment. She’s living proof of bloodline magic and people are quick to take issue with that.”

“Which is why I’m changing her hair to protect her. It’s not shame.”

“My mother says the combination of her hair and her eyes show a strain of magic that she’s never seen before. The Weasley’s owe their red hair to more than biology.”

“Will you stop talking to your mother about her?”

“I have no one else to talk to. No one as knowledgeable about the potential of her magic. You can’t hide her hair with a spell, not for long. You’d be better off using muggle dye, but she’s only two and I won’t stand for you using those poisons on her, so rethink it.”

“There’s got to be safe, gentle dyes that are healthy to use. Natural.” He bet Snape could’ve come up with something.

“Good luck getting her magic to enjoy being hidden. It could distress her in ways that she’s unable to tell us.”

“We’ll just have to watch for a reaction.”

“I’ll just have to stay with her, to make sure she’s told how perfect and wonderful she is every day, instead of being made to feel her real appearance isn’t acceptable.”

Harry gave him a nasty look. “How can you say that to me?” Especially after today, his tone implied.

Draco propped himself on his elbow. “I’m not going to tell you what you want to hear. I’m going to tell you what’s really going on, and that’s why you keep me in your life. No matter what your intentions are, that’s the only thing your daughter is going to think when she gets tired of dyeing her hair. She’s going to be afraid to be herself, for fear of displeasing you. And you know I’m right.”

“You’re underestimating her intelligence. I can get her to understand.”

“And you’re overestimating her confidence. She’s two. The way her Dad looks at her, is everything.”

Harry’s lips tightened on his argument, but no words came. Only tears. There was no greater proof that he also thought Draco was right. At the sight of watching him, unable to speak through his pain, Draco let his own tears show. He did it to let Harry know that he wasn’t the only one afraid that their daughter might pay for their sins.

Harry’s voice was hoarse as he wiped his face. “Can’t we try it? Just for a little while. See if anything good comes from it. It’s too easy to pick her out of a crowd, whether I’m holding her or you are. It might be stupid. It might be useless. But don’t think badly of me because I need to do this. I’m not ashamed of her. I’m not.”

Of course he couldn’t deny Harry the right to hide his treasure from harm. He hadn’t realized the pent up emotions that now wracked Harry’s body and shook the bed. He thought that anyone who could shatter a mirror in the faces of his parents, the way Harry did, wasn’t holding back anything. But when Harry couldn’t get himself under control, he knew better. He suddenly felt very selfish for wanting to rush Harry through his pain. The instinct was to make himself feel better. He changed his mind, sidled closer to Harry, and held him through the worst of his shudders. 

 

***

It was Draco’s idea to consult a potion-maker or a chemist. “We use too many spells on her as it is. Let’s look for a gentler, natural alternative before messing with her magic.”

It was Harry’s idea to call in Hermione to help with “beauty stuff.” 

Hermione, who had never dyed her hair and barely wore make-up, decided that Ginny’s expertise was needed. Ginny considered the adult chemicals she risked on her own hair versus the feather tenderness of Iece’s baby scalp, and brought Luna Lovegood on board for a gentler perspective. 

Before it was all said and done, the six of them huddled around Hermione’s kitchen while Ginny played with Iece and Luna mixed an assortment of fruit derived powders. No one seemed surprised when she announced that was how she made her own make-up. The hair dye she’d come up with, was experimental, but so far, her cockatoo had no side-effects when she’d brushed the powder blue concoction onto his feathers. Ron sat in for the entertainment, grinning over a tub of ice cream.

 

Draco insisted that he sit in a chair behind Iece, not in front of her. “Don’t let her see that.”

“See what? Ice cream? Want some, mate?”

“Sshhhh!” 

Neither of them saw Harry furiously shaking his head from the corner where he sipped his tea. 

“Is cweeem!” Iece squealed. Luna let out a scream, embarrassing herself as well as everyone else. They’d all heard the pop, but no one was ready to believe it.

Harry rushed forward. “Sorry, I should’ve warned you. That’s a tricky word around her. We don’t say it.”

“Oh my goodness!” Hermione covered her mouth in shock, stifling her laughter. She asked Luna, “Are you okay?”

“I think so.” Luna blushed. “Startled more than anything.”

Ginny looked at Harry. “Did she just do what I think she did?”

“I’m afraid so. Sorry, Luna. Ron, don’t say what you just said.”

“What, ice cream? It’s bloody good.”

“Is cweeem!”

This time, Luna, who’d returned to touching Iece’s hair, didn’t scream. But her petulant expression took on added strain as she looked at Harry accusingly. “Quite the little shocker you have here.” She managed a genuine smile and Harry exaggerated the word ‘sorry,’ which he was now too embarrassed to speak. 

Laughter erupted in the kitchen. Even Draco, arms folded defensively as he kept an eye on what they were subjecting the baby to, took extra delight in laughing at the reveal. 

Ron asked from his stool, “Would someone please tell me what’s going on?”

Hermione threw her dish towel at him. “She’s shocking Luna! Ron, move closer so you can see this. You can even hear it if you’d shut up.”

Luna announced. “I don’t want to be the guinea pig anymore. It’s not as fun as it looks.” She rubbed her arm. Harry took her by the shoulders and gently stirred himself in front of his daughter.   
“Well, she’s started now, so I guess I can’t make it any worse. Do you want to show Uncle Ron what you can do?”

Iece nodded, mimicking Harry. Her patent leather sandals kicked in agreement. The chair she sat on had been modified by Hermione into a high chair and she was currently imprisoned beneath Luna’s ministrations. An assortment of jars, foil, brushes and powders covered the table around her. Ginny, designated the official distracter of tiny fingers that wanted to touch everything in front of them, had been her only ally. 

Harry held his arm to her. “Ice cream.”

“Is cweeem!” she shouted, poking him with her pudgey index finger. So much zeal went into pleasing her Daddy, that those closest saw a blue spark leave the place where she’d touched Harry’s arm. All of them heard it. All of them saw Harry retract his arm and rub at the spot. 

He turned to Ron. “And that is why we do not say that word around her,” 

Comprehension widened Ron’s eyes. “She can shock you? Are you bloody kidding me? How’d you teach her that?”

Draco answered for him. “We didn’t. Our new house elf says its standard self-defense these days, although not a common ability in children so young.”

“Defense? How does a baby know to defend itself?”

When no one had an answer, Hermione spelled it out for them. “She doesn’t. It’s very clever, really, unless of course you inadvertently teach her to associate shocks with ice – you know what I mean. Under normal circumstances, she could get an unsuspecting person to take their hands off of her. I think, with a little more training, you could get her to shock anyone who isn’t familiar and safe to her. Perhaps that’s what your elf was going for.”

Ginny was still laughing, but Hermione’s practical approach put a knot in Harry’s chest. It was too close to home. Luna peeped around Harry. “Is it safe to touch her now?”

Iece twisted in her high chair and pointed at Ron’s spoon as it approached his mouth. “Is cweeem?”

Harry and Draco looked at Luna and both said, “No.”

Before they could proceed, Iece was given her favorite dessert. As long as no one said the words, the shocks stopped and Luna was allowed close enough to test the dye and take scissors to the baby’s hair. 

Draco watched darkly, as tufts fell on Hermione’s kitchen floor. Harry caught his eye and he replaced his glare with something more patient.

Luna used a toddler’s toothbrush to color layers of the baby’s hair. Harry and Draco had agreed upon a a brunette that wasn’t so dark as to look unnatural against Iece’s complexion. As they watched the transformation, it was clear that they should’ve gone with a light brown or a sandy mixture. Fresh, bluntly clipped ends around his baby’s face, looked jet black. It’d been his idea to cut it into a boyish length. It seemed like a good idea at the time. The farthest from her natural appearance he could get her, the more control he anticipated having. But by the time Luna was done, and Iece’s head bobbed with sleepiness from sitting too long, she looked like a two year-old wearing a black toupee. No one counted on her hair being so thick that it stood on her scalp. Without the long wisps of tresses to camouflage it, now they could see how dense her hair really was. Paleness had created the illusion that it was thin, but it was actually unruly and didn’t want to lay down now that it was short. 

“Oh my,” Luna gasped. “She has Harry’s hair, at least in texture. Who knew?”

They all seemed to find amusement in that discovery. When Luna could do no more and it wasn’t looking any better, she kissed the sleeping child and told Harry. “Other than the shocks, she’s been really good. Someone deserves a happy meal to go with their… frozen treats. You can’t get most children to sit still for this long.”

Harry thanked her. 

“No problem. I’m sorry it doesn’t look better, but now you know that for yourself.”

“You did great, Luna. It’s going to take more than a bad haircut to ruin that beauty for me.” He didn’t realize he’d insulted her efforts until he’d said it. “I didn’t mean it like that.”

“No, I agree.” She’d started to clean up her bottles and powders while Hermione swept the hair off the floor. “Now we know never to cut her hair again until her head grows into it. She looks quite monstrous.”

Harry was reminded who he was talking to, and found humor in her bluntness. He laughed, but Draco had heard enough. He freed his daughter, glared at Luna, and took her out of the room. 

Luna added, “Just notice how long the dye stays in, and that way we can go with a different color as it grows back. If you’re gentle, you should get a week’s worth of washings without it fading very much.”

The kitchen had cleared of most everyone already. She and Harry joined them in the living room for a quick drink before going their separate ways. He was able to talk Draco into hanging around. Hermione ganged up with him. 

“Will you put her down! Let her sleep it off and have a drink with us. She’s tired. Lay her on my bed and be social for twenty more minutes at least.”

For Harry’s sake, he didn’t argue, but kept pointing at his watch between pointless commentary offered by Luna, and stale jokes offered by Ron. Thirty minutes later, their departure was then acceptable without causing offense. It was Luna who jumped up before Draco could beat her to it. “I’ll grab the baby for you. I want one more kiss.”

Draco sighed in defeat. He just wanted to go home and forget they’d ever done this to a helpless child. 

Luna’s scream startled everyone. 

Led by Harry, they all bottle-necked into Hermione’s narrow hallway. A tangle of elbows and skidding feet, they raced upstairs. Harry took two at a time and Ron fought his way in front of Hermione and Draco, his hand on his wand.

Harry was the first to round the corner, stopping short when he saw the open door to Hermione’s bedroom. Draco flew past him, not waiting to make sense of what he saw. Ron and the others waited beside Harry, immediately as confused as he was. Inside the room, Luna knelt by the bed and let the child use her fingers to pull herself up. She looked at Harry with an obvious embarrassment for screaming again, that she didn’t have to explain. Another shock, her delicate smile seemed to say. Only this time, it hadn’t come from Iece’s touch. It came from her hair. 

Draco picked her up and held her to his chest. “Diddee,” she sang sleepily and closed her eyes against his shoulder. His stare dared all of them to say something inappropriate. Anything. Rather than risk it, no one said a word. 

It was Harry they gave a wide birth to, as he made his way into the room. Confused, horrified, and mesmerized by what he saw, he touched his daughters bright white hair and traced it from her temple to her bottom, cradled by Draco’s forearm. They looked at one another. They looked at their friends. They looked at all that hair having grown back with ten times it’s ability to reflect light, than before. Iece’s hair hadn’t just grown back, three times it’s former length, it was glowing. It was giving off subtle light. 

Without understanding why he needed to, Harry tickled her cheek and made her open her eyes. By then, his friends had found the courage to enter the room. All of them gasped. 

What scared Harry the most, wasn’t her hair. It was her eyes. His baby had only ever shown him luminous dark irises. Now she grinned up at him. Her eyes were grey. Silver-grey, like her true father’s.

Hermione was the only one thinking rationally. “Harry! We have to get her to a mediwizard. We’ve done something. Her magic is having a reaction.”

She pulled his arm. “I don’t think we can floo with her. I’ll drive. Ron, get him.” She was referring to Draco, who had locked eyes with Harry and appeared to be in a heated telepathic discussion. 

Harry hadn’t recovered from the punch to his soul. He saw his daughter taken out of his reach, and lacked the strength to follow. He wanted to. He needed to. He tried to. They held him back. 

Later, he would have trouble believing the hysterics they described in him. From inside his body, he could hardly move. What he’d seen, shut his nervous system down. His friends would claim that his screams were so loud, he frightened Hermione’s muggle neighbors. They would say they couldn’t so much as reason with him to walk to the car. They’d accuse him of bloodying Ron’s nose and shoving Luna. They’d side with the muggle officers who tried to restrain him, swearing that he’d fought so hard he had to be subdued by tasers and drug, kicking and shouting, into restraints.

Harry wouldn’t recall any of that. If anything, he’d been rendered completely helpless at the sight of his daughter’s condition. If anything, he was taking a swing at Lucius Malfoy for daring to possess her and look out through her eyes. No one understood the magic used on him that horrible night. No one understood how deep it went, or how vulnerable it made her. For over two years, he thought he’d outran that terrible night. He thought he was on his way to conquering it. But that very specific color in her eyes, told him that Lucius hadn’t gone anywhere. That very drastic reaction with her magic, confirmed that his ordeal with Lucius, was far from over. 

This was more serious than a haircut. Those eyes had held him down and stabbed him over and over again, with something far worse than a knife. To see his child wearing those same eyes, meant only one thing. Whatever was wrong with his daughter, he was going to have to go through Lucius Malfoy to fix it.

**Author's Note:**

> WARNINGS:
> 
> Mpreg,  
> Implied/Referenced Incest,  
> Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con,  
> Severus Snape Lives,  
> Bottom Severus Snape,  
> Top Harry,  
> Implied/Referenced Sexual Assault,  
> Psychological Trauma,  
> Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD,  
> Protective Severus Snape,  
> Revenge,  
> Love,  
> Unrequited Love,  
> tease,  
> Occlumency,  
> Public Masturbation,  
> Accidental Voyeurism,  
> Past Rape/Non-con,  
> Bottom Draco Malfoy,  
> Aggressive Harry,  
> Parent Harry Potter,  
> Parent Draco Malfoy,  
> Lucius Malfoy Being an Asshole,  
> Mentions of het,  
> Alternate Universe - Gender Changes,  
> Gender Issues,  
> Genderfluid,  
> Dysphilia,  
> Priest Kink,  
> men in skirts,  
> Sexy Severus Snape,  
> Desirable Snape,  
> Drarrython,  
> Drarry,  
> snarry,  
> hermione - Freeform


End file.
